by
Claire Trevien
The weather's gained weight,
sags its pebbled belly against the
tips
of the city's horns.
of the city's horns.
I've
slumped, waiting for it to decide,
grotesque piñata, whether to burst
or rapture itself away.
grotesque piñata, whether to burst
or rapture itself away.
The
world has ended, or, at least,
most people have. I am no Avenger:
I have found wine spared
most people have. I am no Avenger:
I have found wine spared
in
collapsed cellars; it tastes of hills
now plucked out of reach. Grapes
have been crushed, made to sour
now plucked out of reach. Grapes
have been crushed, made to sour
for
my pleasure. Unwaged fingers
now mingle with the vines
while the wine runs down my throat.
now mingle with the vines
while the wine runs down my throat.
Broken
bottles, broken sky: red rain
heaves out of the cracked world.
I open my mouth for communion.
heaves out of the cracked world.
I open my mouth for communion.
From
Claire Trevien, The
Shipwrecked House,
published by Penned
in the Margins.
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