Goonie

Antivenom

I tend to them, moving through the flat
swallow-swift, clinking with each vodka Irn-Bru,
cylindrical fires, hiss-fizz and evaporate sedated by the tin-itch of spirits.
Smirnoff - nane ae that foreign stuff -
my aunts sit wide-legged in leather thrones,
they tell me when I haven't got it right -
too much ice calms its bite -
too much juice foams the gullet -
and too much vodka prompts wraiths
to rave in the vapours. Just before the singing begins
my uncle tsks and knocks back his beer, saying:
Ye canny kill yersel wae thi hing thit cures ye.