Seventh Poem in Seven/Nine Days

Advil or Wine

My neck hurts from craning
over fireplace bricks.
I’ve been painting them wine
to hide old scars.
I opt for day old Zinfandal
with a broken cork in its bottle,
instead of ibuprofen.
Miss the wine glass when I pour
before even imbibing a sip.
Burgundy liquid stains my white
counters and cabinets. For lunch
beets stained my hands, and nestled
next to my omelet
filled with greens and caramelized
onions.

Sipping wine and writing,
wrapped in my maroon sweater,
I stumble into an epiphany
of red. Is it because moon slivers
have aligned themselves with Jupiter
and Venus? Or because you come home
and doze fitfully on our couch.
Arms folded against your blue
shirt. As if you could ward off dreams
troubled by starfish or cucumbers.
Perhaps, this day dipped in red letters
is a harbinger of Mars, declaring
war on the rest of our days.
Or a war trumpet
sounding to our old souls,
Life, while it is life, sounds red.

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