Pour

by Malin Andersson

I’m looking at the hole that’s been poked in my side. A freckle on my hip that has spilled wine ever since. It’s not big at all, you’d think I’ve worn it since birth, but it’s hurting me now as merlot stains my skin.

I’m pouring out on the gray sidewalk holding my boxed wine tummy as some pedestrians, the private type, avert their gaze. Some bring glasses, still warm from their dishwashers, itching to raise wine to lips and consume in gulps. A certain few bring rags to soak up this mess, wipe my legs white, and call it a day. The ones who wash their hands in my wine, slowly, sweetly, and sickeningly, are the ones who scare me most.

Don’t ask who first stuck the pin into my skin, I can’t remember. Perhaps it was the bowtie, the silver kiss,

or the fantasy of turning water into wine that made my side so beautiful to stab.

I wonder: do I taste sweet to you? or do I burn your throat and crinkle your nose as you wait for the buzz that I might give you?

My wine is my shame but not if it warms your belly. Not if I can make you happy.