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