By Kira Cordova

Bone on glass makes an unsavory clink, 

like like a splinter in a lake-top ice rink

or the creak when a gila monster blinks. 

It tends to make the living overthink 

when I rib-cage up to the bar and wink,

so I tend to stay in, but this dim pink 

place seems addressed to me in neon ink. 

Could it be? Somewhere I can get a drink!