Your pomegranate eyes close,
sink under the surface as your lids
close shut to seal them from the outside. The black
on the backs of your eyelids are a screen,
ready for projection. Cut the film,
splice it together from all of those fleeting shots
you’ve captured at school. Multiple frames
of him. The smile, the laugh, the eyes.
Splice the open crook of his elbow
with the gentle reach of an arm. Slide that arm
around your back and close the elbow like a door
that needs to hold in its secrets. Uncork lips,
plunge into the wine bottle: tip it over and watch it spill
underneath your skin. It spreads, becomes a
heady, bubbling ocean just under the surface that
threatens to flush you, stain you burgundy.
The pomegranates swell and
threaten to burst. Slit their round skins
and let their seeds encased in translucent ruby slide out
and fall to the ground. Splice in a few drops of those rubies
upon the lips with a cohort of searching fingers,
gently pushing up a shirt’s hemline to reveal two ripened fruit
underneath. Cut to you: meanwhile, your own fingers
descent to find the trail of sweetness below
while the wine ocean underneath your skin rises and crashes upon shore.
Your wineskin body threatens to burst.
To relieve the pressure, his fingers find and loosen its seams.
Sweet, red wine is a double-edge sword.
One: take a seed between the lips and suck it past your teeth.
Pull off the jeweled skin and taste the sweet, scarlet magic,
let it flow over the tongue and down the throat.
Two: follow this with the sharp, scorching aftertaste
of tannins mixed with the musk of a man. This is
a vineyard, winding and tangling grape-laden vines
below the navel. Cut back to you. Your fingers
find your own and take hold of its fruit.
Descend, find the ground, or the surface
of a bed. Lean your back into it. Swallow
more seeds: feel the wine ocean rise, swell, and
roar. Slit those pomegranate skins all the way open and
scoop the rest of the jewels out. Smear your lips,
smear your skin. Rise your hips up
to meet his, welcome his entry into the garden gates.
Meanwhile, your fingers tear and squeeze grapes
off of every vine. Grapes to stain the lips, grapes
to soak the fingers, and your wineskin body bursts open.
Teeth stained, fingers drenched. You are drunk and mad.
The seeds have all been swallowed.
You lie there, the wine ocean’s crest and wave dying under moonlight,
and hope that someday, he will get drunk with you. You tell yourself
that if he ever does, you will offer him your wine,
dripping from your drenched fingertips.
© 2011 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.