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.