uisge beatha

The water goes in the mouth
and down the throat,
into the belly and out the pisser,
follows the same path
the alcohol went the night before,
but lighter and happier,
simpler and less woozy,
a sunlit liquid transparency chasing
the denser amber fluid,
lambent by lamplight,
that preceded it;
the throat is wetted now,
belly soothed,
inside of the skull bathed.

A sacred hoop of sorts:
this verdant land’s
ample water first founded
and then followed the stiff drink,
the quaffing of which is a test
for which one obtains a taste,
but the cool waters that flow on either side
of the fermented burn-drink
are firmaments above and below,
the life-source context
of all other contents,
the free-flowing forgiveness draught
after all our contests,
the oceans of grace that circumscribe
all our continents of sin.

uisge beatha


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