CW: sexual assault, substance use
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i learned the rules of fermentation in the summertime
while paddle-stirring the honeydew cantaloupe pineapple
greenapple dissolving into buckets of white wine and peach
schnapps. we deemed it sludge fit only for dish-pit sink
drains after five or six days dragged in and out of heat.
one august night i snapped the neck of a flower-vase pitcher
pouring sangria into glasses tableside. come memorial day,
requests trickled then flooded for this light gold peachmelon
nectar and as baltimore july drifted in with the horseflies,
i poured bucket after bucket into grates once everyone
remembered this was the wrong kind of sweet. this was
the cloying venom that stowed away under tongues to be drawn
out of crevices later, when the sun goes down and the neons
peppering the orange-cast streets shine lights paint age
on my face. the night i snapped the pitcher neck, i didn’t bleed
just then, but later and from elsewhere besides my hands. tucked
into a dim red corner bathroom stall pressed to a stranger’s body,
i became the aqua vitae. i became the sweating vase of chablis
and fruit, satin on palates and sugar sticking to hands. after ten
minutes, i am sink drain sludge. i am the wrong kind of sweet.
while paddle-stirring the honeydew cantaloupe pineapple
greenapple dissolving into buckets of white wine and peach
schnapps. we deemed it sludge fit only for dish-pit sink
drains after five or six days dragged in and out of heat.
one august night i snapped the neck of a flower-vase pitcher
pouring sangria into glasses tableside. come memorial day,
requests trickled then flooded for this light gold peachmelon
nectar and as baltimore july drifted in with the horseflies,
i poured bucket after bucket into grates once everyone
remembered this was the wrong kind of sweet. this was
the cloying venom that stowed away under tongues to be drawn
out of crevices later, when the sun goes down and the neons
peppering the orange-cast streets shine lights paint age
on my face. the night i snapped the pitcher neck, i didn’t bleed
just then, but later and from elsewhere besides my hands. tucked
into a dim red corner bathroom stall pressed to a stranger’s body,
i became the aqua vitae. i became the sweating vase of chablis
and fruit, satin on palates and sugar sticking to hands. after ten
minutes, i am sink drain sludge. i am the wrong kind of sweet.
nat raum (b. 1996) is a queer disabled artist and writer from baltimore, md. they hold a bfa in photography and book arts and are a current first-year mfa candidate at the university of baltimore. nat is also the editor-in-chief of fifth wheel press, a queer literature and art publishing space. find them online: natraum.com/links.