“
The Worm at the Bottom of the Bottle
Blue agave, spiny like the desert cacti,
once fermented in the mesquite barrels of Jalisco, Mexico,
is now manifest in the liquid smoke of my Tequila bottle.
By the third shot, I think I'm in love with the gusano,
the red caterpillar people mistake for a worm, pickling
intact, attesting to the purity of the holy spirits.
I shake the bottle and the worm falls like the fresh powder
in my Montreal snowglobe of an ice skater,
the globe's Christmas melody replaced by La Cucaracha
playing convivially on my mind's soundtrack
(in a bit in a rut because I've forgotten the second stanza).
The worm has hit bottom, and so have I.
I don't take this an ominous portent,
but as a sign it's time to ditch the glass
and drink straight from the bottle.
”
”