All My Ancestors Are Alcoholics

By Parker Logan

                I think it’s unreasonable that Audrey Hepburn’s
	character in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Holly Golightly,
		had such a large apartment, larger, even 
than her landlord’s in the movie, but let me not
	       start talking about her landlord, played by Mickey
	Rooney, who Google says is a “versatile and charismatic
American actor,” but let me not start talking about Google,
		the first to rename the Gulf and wipe all diversity
off their calendar, a platform so cooked, of course they’d praise
	a hack in yellowface for his versatility, but let’s circle back
		to that apartment. How the fuck did she do it?
	I know she had her boyfriends, many of them,
		their pockets deeper than the wisdom of a prophet,
but that place in that neighborhood with no roommates
	and a divine specimen of a neighbor looking into her
		windows every so often? The damage I would do
if I was her age and a runaway and living in a spot like that…
		It’s even bigger than my apartment in Baton Rouge
and located in the greatest city on Earth, just steps
	         away from Tiffany’s, and now I’m starting to sound
	like an AirBnB ad, but what I really envy about Audrey’s
character’s place is the party. It’s no secret I’m a sucker
		for a well-stocked bar and a bathtub-sofa, and I used
to dream about throwing a rager like she did with people
	crowded everywhere, drinking and laughing and rioting
		on the fire escape so loudly, the police 
	had to break everything up, and fuck the police,
always dampening the mood in places nobody wants, needs,   or has any reason for them, but, then again, to say the cops
	were called on your party: now that’s something
to celebrate. Bring out the champagne, the wine, the vodka,
	tequila, tequila, tequila, all the drinks we can pour down
		our throats, and what is this, this purring I feel
at the mention of drinking, the thought of being drunk,
	of hosting a bash so rowdy, we’d have the chance
		to tell the authorities where they can shove it?
	I don’t know, but I like it, my lips, the tingle,
		the thought of starting drunken drama, and I can feel
that thirst arising now at the back of my tongue
	watching Audrey, I mean Holly, I mean… well,
		I don’t know what I mean, except I know
	it’s not mine, this craving that’s crept up on me like a ghost
		in the middle of the night, the moon bathing me
exactly how I want to be seen, like Holly, those bangs,
	that pearl necklace, and the eye mask she wears to bed
		so she can sleep until the sun’s made its gander across
	everything except our bodies. This is my tradition,
		my lineage passed down from the generations,
my heirloom of wildness belonging to some original party
         animal that’s found its way to me. Holly Golightly,
		I envy every moment you spent so beautifully,
	and I wish I were you, staying up to watch the sunrise
		in a city like yours, a cup of coffee, having breakfast
on the street, gazing through the window 
                at all the jewels in Tiffany’s.