The Fort is quiet this late at night, right before dawn.
Way on the backside of James Agee Street, I cry alone,
listening to that song that always soothes me,
when The Demon is so close to getting out of his bottle.
Bottle it up and don’t drink whiskey bottles, the bottles
that break his bottle and let him out and let him roar
and let the hateful words I hide in my heart cut them open,
bleed out from the heart, blood can’t put back in a bottle.
The woman sings, soft and ethereal, as delicate as an angel’s
whisper in your ear and holy fuck I’m almost another year older
and I still am chained to that demon and his cracking bottle,
the cracks held whole by will and fear. He’s getting powerful.
No bottle to break the bottle. Only her singing as the sun slowly
shakes off the cold of the underworld to light the world one more day,
and even in this bitter winter it feels so calming and warm to feel the rays
on your skin, almost like a lover, almost like an embrace.
The song repeats. I repeat it over and over until the venom recedes,
and the fear and hate drain away, like blushing color from peaceful cheeks.
She sings, a de facto angel for me, as at the party it come so close to exploding,
and you can’t funnel the blood of the heart back in a bottle.
Finally soft again, I clean up my face, and walk into work.