Sodium and Tin

The gin is a pilot light in my throat,

burning blue and thin.

I need the weight of a saltier coat

to keep the stomach in.

I pried the metal back just enough

to let the thick red slide.

The stove coil glows a dull, angry puff

where a drop of the broth has died.

It hisses like a snake on the burner,

a jagged lid on a hinge.

I’m just another midnight learner

on a very quiet binge.