Oops, wrote this, but forgot to post this.
The Day They Drank Sangria
I.
After Sangria the alphabet became a blanket
between us. We spoke in clinking, in constant
chatter of an hourglass, the language of gender
disrupting our meal. If we could stay simple, say—
eggplant and caramelized onions on flatbread,
finding the Dalai Lama blessing Seattle,
goldfinches on a gray day. We raised our glasses in
hope and compassion, wiped our table of fear.
II.
In a world where our questions are answered
just to keep us quiet, we slam our glasses on the table,
karma to the faithful, confusion to the rest, we
listen to the language of las sirenas, the thirsty fruit
meshed with drink. All day women appeared with
nothing on—not resentment, not fear—and we wondered
over again if we had wandered into a
parallel universe where everything equaled beauty. We
questioned and we questioned again.
III.
Remember when the waitress returned with nothing?
She asked if we loved the swollen fruit and we
thought she believed our tongues could no longer speak.
Understand, we are gods with large vocabularies,
vocal and ready to sing. Understand we are ready to
win back the words used against us—bitch, cunt—
X-out the politicians who let them slide from their mouths.
Yes we are angry, but we’re organized, and we’ll choose
zest over milquetoast. We’ll choose what we want to give away.
