Ode to Tequila

I pour down
my welcoming
throat
a 1.5
ounce
of ecstasy—
tequila.

A word
so seductive
I am instantly
and intently
only focused
on this product
originally
from Mexico.

It’s lineage rich.
First birthed as
fermented sap
from local maguey plants
collected by natives
and made into
a concoction
called Pulque.
It has
moonlighted as
mescal brandy,
agave wine,
mescal tequila
and finally
simply
mmmmmm
tequila.


I’d lick
my fingers,
toes,
the wooden
bar counter
if by chance
a smidgen of
this
liquid pleasure
were to escape
onto any other surface
besides my
yearning
taste buds.

How our
relationship
came to be
I cannot remember,
perhaps the
storage section
of my brain
for memories
has been
clouded from
the slightly woody
and sharp-flavored
warming goodness.

Once only a drink
for bandidos
and rancheros,
now may be
consumed
by any number
of individuals.
and I am
oh
so
grateful
for that
fact.


My favorite way
to enjoy
this gift from
the Aztecs
Is with salt—
licked from
the neck of some
well-built
tanned and
toned
fiery male
(though I
usually settle
on Licking
my own hand
because seriously,
where would I find
a man like that?)
Then comes the
best part,
the shot.
I don’t take it
too fast,
savoring
its intricacies
of flavor.

Sometimes
it’s anjeo (aged)
other times
I prefer
reposado (rested)
and in desperation—
I don’t give a fuck
and will drink down
Mr. Jose Cuervo
Gold.
Each type
has a special
place in my heart.

The lime wedge
at the end
seals the deal
as I slam it down
on the bar
in front of
my favorite bartender
who is always game
to drink with me
and knows when I
come in for
my tantalizing treat
of choice,
his stock of tequila
will most certainly
take a hit.