She Walks Like Whiskey Burns
There is a walk that says I know exactly what I carry—
not hurried, never ordinary.
She has that walk: slow, heavy-hipped, and sure,
every step a declaration and a cure
There is a walk that says I know exactly what I carry—
not hurried, never ordinary.
She has that walk: slow, heavy-hipped, and sure,
every step a declaration and a cure
for whatever boredom had settled in my chest
before she crossed my line of vision.
Each footfall lands like a low note, like a sign—
the body underneath the clothes knows what it does.
She walks like whiskey burns,
and that is reason enough.
Her hips describe a figure eight with every forward stride,
a mathematics I could study for the rest of my life
and never solve,
and never want to,
because the mystery of how she moves
is half the whiskey
and half the history.
She rounds the corner and the afterimage stays behind—
the ghost of hips and heels still playing in my mind,
like the burn of good bourbon sitting in the chest,
slow and warm going down.
She walks like whiskey burns,
and I am not at rest.