A Bar Man Asked, “What’ll It Be?”

A year ago last night, I swallowed an ancient poison. Out of slow pain, grows each next blunder, submissive sigh. I know well what terror’s counsels be. Crouched low, in a dim light, I followed familiar rhythm. There is no gain, no use, to wonder might I die. I could feel the mirror watching me. (The Wicked Queen hates Cinderella and clucks a tongue with glee, though this time, because of luck, her apple has coughed free.)