Will this whisky bring me joy?
Relief? A full night’s sleep, for once?
It’s a brand-new whisky, and it already has a legend,
but is it true? Discovered during the pandemic,
abandoned in the cool caves
behind a mothballed distillery?
Dare I believe the tale?
Dare I believe the potion?
What notes—nose, palate, finish?
What stories do barrels tell, when they are forgotten?
Had they been recycled, charred, properly sealed?
The angel’s share, they say, is true and fitting,
but do angels drink whisky, full of fire and spice?
Dare I question the higher realms?
Dare I question the maker’s intent?
Maybe this whisky is meant for a dead man,
and who am I, a modern woman,
to interrogate its provenance,
to add two cubes to two fingers?