Drunkenness feels insular, slippery. Edie pries at her mouth with the rim of the bottle, opens her lips with it; tugs at her bottom lip with the slick glass ridge, embracing the grotesque. The details of things have become extraordinary and she can see them up close.
Her hold on having a body goes sideways. She finds she can exist within the individual components of her; she finds that she does not, in fact, exist entirely in the brain, or behind the eyes, like she’s thought all her life. She can shrink her consciousness and fit herself, every molecule, into the shining bridge of tendon that anchors the base of her lip to the root of her gums, she can think from her ribs, every fingernail is a pale, rippled eye.
The howling subsides. Edie is a cave. She drinks, she crawls inward toward the central light of her own ancient fire.
Margot Sannes 