Maker's Mark

I discharge one ounce
and the caramel liquid jeers,
now a stiff cohort slighted
by the glass chamber’s clarity.

Its presence recalls historic romps,
jostling on galloping steeds,
hasty uncorkings pressed to pallid lips,
gulped feverishly
then splashed
like surfeit holy water
on festering flesh,
a makeshift antiseptic.

I absorb dissolved
memories, tip back the vessel,
then shoot.
The hot infusion funnels
into my mouth,
but I constrict my throat until the last drop,
inhaling seared wood, slivers
of oak casks,
before swallowing the fiery dose.

The liquid trickles downward
coating my innards,
while the absorbed chemicals swell
upward, treading
below skin’s surface,
emblazoning my cheeks.