Jaime Jacques

EIGHT IS THE MAGIC NUMBER by Jaime Jacques

Going to bed with a clear head after wanting nothing more than to drink eight cold beers = victory. The only time I miss drinking is when it’s sunny — when the light fills up everything, except

Eight glasses of white and I’m a know it all I want: to be touched but hands slip right through my vapour. Tears will come at last land me in a loop of cringe and blue light morning sweats and oh yes — the only time I miss drinking is when I’m sad.

Why do I always pull the magician card? the number one and infinity the beginning and the end less possibilities. A bottle builds a kingdom. Then burns it down. Four beers and four mescals wed to make the perfect high. With one hand to the earth and other to the sky— the magician conjures the balance of eight

glasses of red make me feel like all my faucets are open the only time I miss drinking is when I’m in airport bars full of overpriced taps and untethered bodies— the first night in a new city, before the comfort of a new friend, and then

I only miss it after sex or when I need to open up my chest and let the locusts out. Don’t give up before the miracle, the old timers say. Godless words stick to my tongue: When the resurrection happens how will I celebrate?