Poetry by LeeAnn Pickrell

Judith Jackson CC




I drank because

I could, because it meant I was old enough, even though I wasn’t; no longer a child, even though I was. It meant I was sophisticated. I drank because my parents drank, my whole family drank. I drank because it was there. Because it was legal even if you were underage, which was eighteen then in Texas, if you were with your spouse or family, and I was with my family and they drank and I drank too. We were all drunk together. I drank because it took away the fear of opening my mouth, being someone in a crowd of people. I drank because it took away the shame, knotted in the pit of my stomach, caused, yes, by the things I did when I was drinking but drinking was like saying fuck it. I drank because it was fun, because the world opened, anything was possible, even though nothing ever got done. I drank because it softened the edges, blurred the lines, took the pain away. Gave birth to dreams, not dreams coming true through the hard work, say, of putting pen to paper to write that book, but the dreaming itself. On a late spring Sunday afternoon, sitting outside at T.G.I. Friday’s, a pitcher of sangria on the table, knowing I’ve gotten too drunk too soon again but not caring because I’m making plans. I’m going places, sitting at that table going nowhere.




​LeeAnn Pickrell is a poet and editor who lives in Richmond, California. Her debut collection of poems, Gathering the Pieces of Days, was published in 2025 by Unsolicited Press, and Tsunami, a memoir about her experience in the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami is forthcoming in 2026. She is also the author of Punctuated (Bottlecap Press, 2024) and has been traveling the road of recovery for years now.




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