I pour champagne in Batman’s cup and think if Hell’s an endless subway system which car will I be in? Who will save space for the bubbly-laced, the mothers who wine & dine action figures in hopes of never being replaced? My son thinks it’s tea, but this is make-believe, so poof all his superheroes drink 80 proof. A scarlet cemetery of Solo cups between us, make no mistake, this is how we honor Jesus, water to wine just like the Bible teaches. Yet it’s not holy I want him to see, but the nightblush of my cheeks, three deep, Etta wilting on a stereo breeze…this is what it takes for me to love my body: a goblet of brut berried jazz, speakers moan-soft, rhythm-mad. Yes, I drink. It means I never flinch when a man touches me, means I never shy the licorice thick of my kiss and wince when a man’s lips brush these. Isn’t that a gift? To show my son what it means to live outside the lines rape lit? To lay ladder where once maze slipped? Son! I am only brave half-sunk in this sapphire wave, but you, heedless of God and His subway crypt, must make my gin-gummed face your compass, must captain this haze: my drool your flag, my eyes our only exit.