Evidence

At the Mexican restaurant

the frosty margarita on the rocks

comes in a tall glass rimmed with salt,

tastes first of afternoons

along the coves in Monterey Bay

when I was ten,

how the hours alone

were both blissful and sad.

Melting ice cubes bump

against my lip, a cold shock

before the melding

of tequila and lime flows

across my tongue

and the last swallow tastes

of intoxication and infidelity… 

how there have been days

like that, a convergence

of pungency and perception,

how the past rolls up

like waves over boulders

on a rocky shore

and I absorb every sensation

in search of truth.

Laura Bayless