Stella

A golden shovel after Robert Allen

My body is shaped like a Stella Artois glass, so you
can pour yourself in. There’s enough room where you can
curl up or spread out. You don’t have to kill
your joints or bends to fit in, but you can curve your
neck beneath the horn. You said alcohol brings out demons
in people, never would let yourself fall to the amber or
the stout. But you looked deep into the glass well of love
I opened for you and were drawn in. For the
first time, you welcome the surge of liquid
instability, and you realize how easily your body
shapes into mine. You won’t become another of
the alkies in your family, but you’ll see the
giddiness bubble to the top as you sink deep into your beloved.