That Third Drink, By PATRICIA SMITH

He was that third drink she shouldn’t have had,

a hammer moving down hard on her eyes.

He was the way fragrance moves in an empty room,

the hard stone that wouldn’t stop prying at her closed eyes,

breaking her slumber into questions.

He was cyanide glistening in a china blue cup.

He was the pin prick hurting

that stiffens the hands after bullets of rain.

He was the bitch of moons, bright with disdain,

the sky’s stuttering at twilight,

the nasty way neon winks at the lonely.

And she saw him clearly,

studied the lines on his face,

as she stumbled like an eager dancer

into the cave of his arms.

He was that third drink. She should have said no.

Now each time she grows thirsty,

he watches.

From “Big Towns, Big Talk” ( Zoland: $9.95; 115 pp.) .

199 2 by Patricia Smith. Reprinted by permission .