Beer

Patrick Kindig

 

We never drank water
together. It was always beer
between us and this beer was like
a pocketknife with many blades
and a nail file and a corkscrew and
some other kind of tool of whose use
neither of us was sure. We used it

to peel our lives from us like
the bitter skin of an orange and to cut
small squares from the city
in which it did not matter if we spoke
with our mouths or with
our hands. I always ordered
Kölsch. He never ordered
the same thing twice. We saw

Berlin through a series of bottles
and glasses and we saw each other
the same way, through a prismatic
telescope. Perhaps this
was the final function
of beer: to magnify
that which we needed to examine
more closely and to scatter

that which was too bright and hot
to behold with the naked eye.


Kindig Photo

Patrick Kindig is a dual MFA/PhD candidate at Indiana University, where he writes poems and studies 20th century American literature. His micro-chapbook, Dry Spell, is forthcoming from Porkbelly Press in late 2015, and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in the minnesota review, Fugue, BLOOM, Court Green, and elsewhere.


 
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