When chaperoned by sweetness, noxious medicine
goes down easily. The new nanny taught me this
long ago after she bumbershot from the sky.
With no such assistance, however, chalky remedies refuse
to go anywhere gently. News of death, I’ve found, comes
the same: never does it arrive with a honeyed chaser.
No, it stings instead as the honeybee stings, with force
enough to blow the green fuse and melt the ribbon.
I received just such a sting today.
I barely knew her, really, hadn’t seen her in years,
but sometimes there’s no explaining grief’s prick.
After all, why else drink eighteen straight whiskies?
Friend, so long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, goodbye.
I know I’m confusing Ms. Andrews’ roles now, but so what?
On this good night, every shot will taste of Welsh bitters.
Kevin Grauke has published work in such places as The Threepenny Review, The Southern Review, Quarterly West, Ninth Letter, and Cimarron Review. He’s the author of the short story collection Shadows of Men (Queen’s Ferry Press). Bullies & Cowards is forthcoming from Cornerstone Press in 2026. He teaches at La Salle University and lives in Philadelphia.