Thursday, April 14, 2011

Pretty Pretty

Do not look at wine when it is red, when it sparkles in the cup and goes down smoothly. At the last it bites like a serpent, and stings like an adder. --Proverbs 23:31-2

Oo, oo, pretty pretty. I liked to watch the blood curve the thin
tubes while the needle sat in the crook of my elbow.
It looked like thicker wine
and I wished I'd find a Crazy straw with all those turns and circles,
a Dr. Seuss roller coaster for our juice,
only my juice was wine. I wanted it in me and on me,
I wanted to feel it in rain, climb in a bath
and smell and feel wet wood, dried roses, and the acidic bite,
the alcohol something I could take between my teeth,
and it rose to my skull, softening everything, the room a-glow.
My hand couldn't pass the bowl of a wine glass
without lifting. I'd pour from the bottle into a large bowl,
wash my hands and face with it, pour it to make
paths to follow on the floor. I don't remember
where it led. That's a lie. Wrong beds, bonkers--
finally stuck inside my head, where I kept a rope
and a tree--and no one had the key.

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