there is a thin ribbon of red
pouring from
the mouth of the bottle
into the clear glass of the decanter
framed by her translucent wrists
and you can only think
of your own blood
flooding from your heart to your brain
until your body becomes as cold and brittle
as fossilized ice

pretentious
you think involuntarily
a girl not raised on
traces of almonds or grape stubs
grew up on coffee grinds
2am mornings
bloodshot eyes
has never known the leisure of the evening
never known a life other than grasping

this is the best meal you’ll have for a while
you remind yourself
keep in mind the looming years
of instant ramen
microwave dinners
plastic utensils

so you try and savor it

a little more

fine art, cuisine, wine
white tablecloths
throwing out a meal half-finished
appalled
your fingers twitch
aching to grab

think of the homeless man
you passed in the city weeks ago
who hungers on the street
survives not on the warmth of vintage brews
but on powder bought from the nearest 7-11

wince as a plate
of scallops
chocolate drizzle
balsamic vinegar

is turned away

the smell distinctive
tipsy
adults at the table grow louder

their half-lidded eyes dim
the vin santo
treacherous even from here
wafts and whispers
it’s ok, let go
we all turn to salt and rock in the end