The Monarch flips from my fingers,
breaking the spell,
and breaking my heart.
Its shards scatter around us,
in drifts of crystal razors.
My stomach lurches,
while my courage runs out with the tide.
My breath catches in my throat.
My eyes dim as the sun skitters across the sand,
racing the hermit crabs for safety.
Suddenly, your cool hand on my neck
I gulp the sweet sea air and hear you laugh,
“Christ , don’t be so serious, David.”
Drinkers with Writing Problems 