When I drink amaretto sours I get my old self back
and it’s pretty awful. There’s a reason we left her
at the bottom of the mountain with a faux soldier.
She’s probably still preaching various weak beliefs.
Or wearing that sweater with the metal brackets.
It’s amazing we traversed the entire valley on foot
but we were younger and didn’t think about feet.
When the wrought iron café chair left waffles all
up and down my ass, I laughed it off, got hungry.
While she was feeling her way out of catacombs
I auditioned a few prospective masseuses. Shame
we had to separate on account of passport drama.
My new incarnation fixed problems preemptively.
Threw out the Dutch baby before its edges burned.
Remained on a couch when the DJ played ABBA.
But then, inevitably, there’s a mirrored bathroom
corridor and a stall with a stranger on the phone,
only the call is for me. She puts it on speaker so
even my frenemies can hear the intimate static.
Soap flows directly from dispenser to tile floor.