Wine Not

bird brained

The rose colored glasses, etched in depression era like tattooed heirlooms of our mothers’ mothers, wouldn’t empty. Wine seemed to pour from the bottom of the glass up, always full, and so we continued to drink our fill. Even when my hands took life like a flight of birds, spilling red onto upholstery, my glass did not seem to empty.

 

“Dab it!” I proclaimed, and we dabbed, and much like the magic of our never emptying glasses, the red did not leave its mark.

 

Talk meandered in starts and stops like a mumuration; our words were starlings. “There are chickens in the pipes.” “I hope the chicken that follows me while doing laundry is real.” “Chickens are a reoccurring theme in my art.” The cats seemed content with the conversation.

*Inspiration and artwork by friend, Carly Hayes

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