A PAINTING OF DIONYSUS
BY MATT GUZMAN
We sit outside drinking cheap wine cold,
A dirty porch lifted into the canopy
Of a half-dead oak.
I see your forward posture,
Leaning in close, I see wiry jet black nose hairs
Peeking out, turning your face into some
Our tongues taste like ash –
Wild hairs dance to Frankie Lymon and
This wine, fermented grapes, warmness –
making you think you’ve found something special.
Tomorrow is going to be an early morning
And neither of us feels the cold house chill.
When the sun rises, our hearts somehow know,
That one can warm a bed,
The same as two.
© Sagebrush Review Volume V Spring 2010