Jug Wine

This is one of the very few ‘9-11’ poems I wrote that survived the garbage can. Since the recession of those years never ended but just became more general, this poem’s occasion still exists, for what it’s worth (maybe a turnip?).

Jug Wine

 

Hot sun on the stoop

no shade given or needed.

We talked in our bare feet

felt for nervous resonance

in cocked eyebrows, laughter,

convergence of braggadocio

and innocence,

perilous looks above sunglasses

as if in the air our brown and blue met

in a sheen of tears, a pall of nicotine.

We took shelter in a jug of wine.

 

Slush in the boot tread

war in the naked trees,

fire we have paid for

staining the country bright.

The family sits,

we wash out cups of tea,

wash out hatred with our laughter,

feel the touch of avoided pity; but–

our eyes evaporate

where they used to meet.

We take shelter in a jug of wine.