Sip, Drop, Shatter, Drip, Blare

By Autumn Bernard

Autumn Bernard’s Sip, Drop, Shatter, Drip, Blare is a visceral, multi-sensory poem that immerses readers in a moment of joy turned tragedy. Told through the perspective of shattered glass, it captures the vibrant life of a queer nightclub and the devastating impact of violence—echoing both resilience and heartbreak in every line.

Sip, sip, sipping 

Drop, drop, dropping 

Shatter, shatter, shattering 

Drip, drip, dripping  

Blare, blare, blaring  

I feel their joy—sipping drinks  

as the comedian takes away their worries;  

they stand from the small but cozy stage 

in the small but dainty club 

with a small but daring group 

trying to get by.

I feel the first bullet ricochet 

against my hard but fragile frame

as they continue

                          sip, sip, sipping. 

I hear the small crowd’s laughter at  

the jokes playing along upbeat 

music in the background: music they dance, and vogue, 

and drop, and sing to.  

At this moment, they are not surviving,  

but thriving. 

I hear the glass panes drop,  

but they aren’t louder than the sound of 

hearts dropping: They know  

what is going to happen all too well.

Their hearts

drop, drop, dropping. 

I taste the blood, sweat, and tears,

of all that the performers in beautiful wigs must have put into the night; 

a singer’s voice, so high pitched, even the ‘queen of christmas’

wouldn’t dare attempt to shatter any glasses 

in her presence.  

I taste the fear. The once positive atmosphere shatter as people—one by one—drop like flies, the taste of complete and utter fear and dread  

is enough to make me, an already pierced glass, shatter all the more.  

The hearts of the loved ones—

shatter, shatter, shattering.  

I smell the delicious snacks the patrons serve,

comfort foods like fries and nachos—delicious and 

dripping with cheese. 

If I hadn’t known what childhood smelled like before,  

I do now.

This club, a tight-knit venue

has a community that cannot be broken,

but there are people out there who believe otherwise. 

I smell the copious amounts of blood, 

pouring out of the many wounds of victims. 

Blood isn’t a smell most would name, 

but when it’s present, it names itself.

Blood coats the flashing, dancefloor

drip, drip, dripping. 

I see the glowing “open” sign outside the door, 

the classic blue and red combo, flashing 

brightly. It makes everyone feel welcomed. 

The D.J. sets up his disk, the 

screeching blares into my ears.  

Before he plays relaxing Rhythm & Blues. 

After the comedy special, people one by one, 

build up the courage  

to join others on the dancefloor: their dancing 

skills—or lack thereof—is never judged by  

any one in this flashing movement zone. 

I see the motion of people, fighting for their  

lives suddenly stop: their eyes never blink again.  

I watch as two brave and brilliant individuals bring a stop 

to the agonizing harm being committed on friends—

their family. I watch people tend to others’ wounds; 

another looks for the nearest phone to dial;  

and instead of seeing the dance floor flashing or the 

disk blaring, I hear something else.

Soon the ambulance's lights replace those of the dancefloor’s

and the disk’s noise is replaced by the sirens. 

In the distance, an ambulance—

blare, blare, blaring.

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Autumn Bernard is an African American student who attends Georgetown High School. She loves learning about psychology as well as history. Autumn also enjoys playing in her school's orchestra, acting in the theatre, and competing in Georgetown High School's Criminal Justice Club. She is studying forensics in order to become a crime scene investigator!