Wine Talks

8/1

"Do you want him back?" The question put to me, late last night,
staring up at me from the pages of my book of Kim Addonizio's poetry,
The same question put to me some previous night, riding back from
who knows where, the wine still sloshing in my stomach,

but instead of saying something belittling, like, "No shit, Sherlock,
Where the hell have you been all while I was crying into my glass,
watching that movie that reminded me so much of him"
(... hell, it could be any movie and I would still see his face).

I just sit there and stare straight ahead and think of something
else to say - though thinking, thank god, is less of an accomplishment
right now than it is an achievement or unhappy accident.

Ask me when, later, I'll sit in bed and write these words,
(being extra careful not to censor myself - the wine still talking, surely)
lying next to the stuffed animal he bought me that I
couldn't even bring myself to take home until it was all of him I had,

When later I wake in the middle of the night to the sounds
of our hearts breaking, across frozen distances,
the violent sound of a tornado encapsulated in the
fragile tinkling of shattering crystal,

a sound familiar both to my ears and to my soul.
I'll remember, certainly, when, in the morning, I see these words
I've written, perhaps forgetting the writing, the process of tearing
apart my arm and pulling these sentiments

down onto the paper from the sinew that had trapped them far too long,
and I'll nod my head in agreement at the words, the sentences,
as I cast out even more lines to the upcoming day,
partly to drag myself into it, partly to catch hold

Of anything good for my heart to eat and feel full again.
"Do I want him back?" The wine is no longer answering
when I tell you, truthfully,
you have no idea. and please don't ask again.