Tequila Courage
Kelli Clise-Riffle
I stood on a good friendŚs porch
and watched klansmen
wannabes in his front yard, set fire
to a cross, illuminating the
night sky with their hate.
Hid in their bastardized bedsheets,
they taunted and cussed, as if
we wouldnŚt know their voices--
I felt sickened to my core.
I tossed back my drink and
with the courage of tequila,
jumped from the porch and kicked
their malevolent cross.
I chuckled when the sputtering
flames captured the hem of one
sheet and the fool danced in a circle.
I jerked the pillow case from
another manŚs head and saw
a boy from school--
itŚs the only time I ever spit
in someoneŚs face.
He punched me in the mouth and
we tumbled to the ground;
kicking, punching, biting.
A shotgun blast shattered the
melee for a few precious heartbeats,
before the sheets fluttered away
into the cooling night and my friend
helped me to my feet.
Silently, we watched the greedy
little flames flicker and dance.
He looked at me and said softly,
śThat was a stupid thing to do.Ŝ
I looked at the gun glittering evilly,
yet reassuring, in the firelight.
With itŚs presence, I realized I fought
not for the right reasons,
but because I was in a bad mood, drunk
and looking for a fight.
And the flames fluttered and died,
leaving us in near darkness.
