Gabriella Torres



The Turkey's Nest Part I


Chasing dreams at the bottom
of a glass, one part bourbon,

three parts hopes, misplaced
desires and our heroic delusions

about poetry, love, and the next
afterhours bar. Certain like

the next round of drinks, we
were young Americans, raised

on denim, teen spirit and the
belief that we were meant to be

something,  at least for as long
as the night would last which

we hoped was forever so long
as the jukebox kept playing

"Don't Stop Believing" and we
could pretend that we hadn't.




May 5th 2012


Nothing can replace those
warm Brooklyn nights

when expectations and whiskey
were substitutes for love

and the jukebox at the bar
played along to the story

of our bruises and bones so
keenly aware of the soundtrack

to our self-destruction, inevitable
like melting ice at the bottom

of the glass thinking somehow
it was beautiful to hold boys

who wanted to make girlfriends
out of paper or stones, something

to keep at home in the cupboards
while chasing one neon light

to the next until Thursday
was a Sunday in another time

and place and the sunset you
watched from a stranger's rooftop

made promises that of course
would be replaced, reproduced,

the latest backlash of late nights
finally a cue that the endless summers

are only endless in songs, the chill
of fall already nipping at your heels.