Venom

In every bottle of Caballeros
triple-distilled mezcal, a scorpion

swims in a silo of liquid the color
of caramel, of clarified dulce de leche,

the hot milk of it pressed from a mulch
of chopped  blue agave hearts, maguey azul.

Darker than an olive dropped into a martini,
it's there as a memento of what follows

after the flush of pleasure, after the heat
that turns the knees into a mash like pulque

because though she said she wouldn't let it,
she's let her heart float to her mouth—

it lies on its side like a fish in cold
stupor and her tongue has gone numb

like a stone.  All because she's fallen
for the one she can't have, she tosses

her head back and drains the little cups
like they were poison, remembering

the sting of lime on his tongue, the bite of salt
in the crevice between his finger and thumb.

First published in The North American Review, March-April 2007;
The 2007 James Hearst Poetry Prize, selected by former U.S. Poet Laureate Ted Kooser