Friday Nights Poem by Adelaide Lii

I like to watch them drink their drinks:
Vodka poured from glass to aluminum.

Don't throw stones,
don't fold up your bones.

At least not yet, not now
when winter's pulse is much too hard to find
and our throats are peeling
and our toenails have grown dim and blue.

Now that I've forgotten the cats cradle
and how to braid my fingers through
those shredded shoe laces,

stretch myself out and into
the arms of somebody warm.

'Jumping tastes so good, '
they tell me with muddled eyes and
lucid smiles and
beads around their wrists.