by Sophia Macris

I developed my taste for bourbon on the twenty-seventh of June. We were drinking at that bar across the street from your building, someone else was buying the drinks and they were Manhattans, I was intent on tying my cherry stems into knots with my tongue and kept drinking until I'd succeeded. I wore my favorite dress, I was drunk when I got there, I'd walked from South 2nd and Bedford, only once took a wrong turn. You wore your seersucker suit; you were so thin; you smoked Marlboro Lights outside the bar because of the Brits. Come on, skinny love. And you were content to let me walk away.


Sophia Macris is reading Cavafy, eating figs, and making plans.