THIS IS MY BLOOD
- Dark Poets Club
- 1 day ago
- 2 min read
By Doug Walters
I would assume that, should they exist, spirits don’t weigh anything. You’re so light the couch barely shakes as you sit down next to me, proselytizing with an uncorked bottle in one hand, two empty glasses in the other. Not real, but all I had. Cheap impulse buys from the grocery store. You’re not impressed but “we’ll make do.” Next time…real ones. Bases not chipped…long smooth stems sexy and straight like a cheerleader’s waist…a bowl with a rim that sings like the moistened lips of late evening. Corkscrew employed glasses filled halfway bottle expertly twisted to avoid losing one drop. We don’t clink glasses or lock eyes as we take our first sip. Too much in love to worry. You swallow. You look at me, your glance beguiles me into boldness. I swallow. I look at you, planning out explorations of every impertinence. You drink again, ascend me, spill your drink from your mouth to mine. Communion. The wine seeps into every corner between every line into every hard-to-reach spot. And I become Catholic all over again. You sit up and arch your body up and back like a cobra and reach for your glass again. I reach for mine and you stop me. Drink from me. Our lips meet like old friends, and you bleed into me again. I swallow greedily at your obscene liturgy. Colonized, all indigenous me conquered by all conquistador you. And I mainline total acceptance, new definitions, new identities. Propitiation control fawning begging forgiveness. Unsnap unzip and I forget myself as you fill the air. So heavy and full I taste you by breathing. Awake.
Dizzy and sick and drunk and swimming and full of memories not sure are mine. Like packages sent to the wrong address. You are gone. Exorcised. Your key lies on the kitchen counter. Left behind like a Gideon bible. Left behind as a reminder of your theology. Left behind, I assume, with intention.