Victoria Hunter Poet Free verse

2 Am On a Saturday

Your bottle
of Wild Irish
Rose wine
is a potbelly pig
bleeding in the tender
over-turned dirt

gnats linger near it
like kids do a birthday cake
when it’s about to be cut

I am under a blanket
thick as the snow that was on the steps
left from the blizzard of 1993

I keep light on a page of my diary
I sketch my dirty secrets in it

the ones no rose I will ever grasp
will ever know
and don’t ever think
you can make me tell you them

now you sit on a landing
a puppet
when it’s not danced
by magic

and that maybe have been left
to be just another piece
of my home to study
and to one morning

before my blood reminds me
it also has pain
that won’t go away

be chosen
to be another thing
I am obsessed with
revealing in a poem

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The Situation July 8, 2023 at 4:34 PM How this reminds me of Evanston. My first drink. And that snow of 93. I was there or 83. It's a memory of mine.