Bitter

 A FREE-VERSE POEM

Wine, we drank on the edge 

Of the moon as we were graceful 

Then when we were like paper 

Capitals, or the sand lit like baby jewels— 

Or, the drunken waves of Time. 

Strange fire made you ripple up, 

Thinking in your backbone, 

In your height, that it was me. 

You didn’t even have to tear it. 

You shot it out of that glass. 

And, all the paper died, flew away; 

They were not kites, but dead animals 

Or skin, or debris, or something like 

A thing I can’t touch unless I want 

It to disappear leaving white residue 

On my fingers.

✴✴✴

Join Our Newsletter

For stories, poems, and exclusive content you won't get anywhere else!  (Mailed 1x or 2x a month)

We value your privacy.  You can unsubscribe anytime. 

Thank you!

You have successfully joined our subscriber list.