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  • John Wellers

The Need for a Dry Martini

The Need for a Dry Martini

His desert-tan beard covers a

grin like a khaki tarp sprinkled by

sand once buffeted on high winds

and low erosive words.

Lobster legs, then a

buttery slurp, dipped and smacked

by the same tongue like

light rain on a desert beard.

“How are you?” precipitates

like a dry-heave. You yank the string

tied between the corners of your mouth

and your shoulders, shrugging.

Breaking limbs under unrelenting

pressure, his gut flaunts like the wise-

ass, jovial guru that you evaded

your whole adult life.

“Really, how are you?” he pressures,

bones begin to shatter, shelter

snaps, scatters, scamps, exoskeleton

keeps its form but barely holds.

You gush, saturated

eyes twist your heart’s throat

brittle toffee-parts soaked

stiff, turgid; please don’t touch.

—John Wellers


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