Drunk is escape.

You could call her drunk, call her sober or three hundred doves,
dying, bird flu intoxicated and drowning in the deep end of the pool,
chlorinated. You could call her drunk, but she wouldn’t understand your words,
and you’d be slurring again. She’s talking fine. She’s twenty rubber bands,
snapping all at once.

You could call her drunk, but you can’t remember her number.

You could call her drunk but she’s just a little tipsy at this hour, too wild
to be wasting away. You can see her wasting away, but now there are three
of her and you don’t remember if she chugged the bottle
or if it was you.

It doesn’t really make a difference.