Poetry
This Cabernet Has Legs
someone asks about you
and I choke on the memory of that night
the wine went down wrong, I say
which may have been true
because I feel grape vines
slither ‘round my ankles
and creep up toward my throat
this cabernet — ahem — not so smooth
I focus on the moths
under the gazebo, ashen and fluttering
as I was
when I found your truck
airbags deployed and doors open
like the set of a play
lit by blinking headlights
while actors hide backstage
I wait for you to appear
and when you do not
I scream your name
hoarse and high-pitched
I’m still screaming now
only my voice doesn’t carry
because this cabernet has legs
far better than the last
So I swirl my glass
grateful to exist here
among the vines
and endless chatter
knowing part of me
will always be there
shouting your name
into the black
