The Fifth

At 2:00 AM, the beer is lukewarm.

I look down and see the way my smallest finger

curls around the aluminum.

It’s crooked, just like his was.

There’s a white scar across the knuckle

from a knife that slipped a decade ago.

I’m ashamed of how much of him

is still trapped in my skin.

I try to straighten it,

but the bone just wants to lean.