Blood From A Broken Bottle
(A Sestina)
Eric Bonholtzer
With distended gut he reaches for the bottle,
aching. The sting burns like fire, but sates his thirst.
Slowly, inebriation/release sets in, his feelings relax.
He ponders matters large and small, life and death.
A shattered picture frame holds what was once life.
He wonders how it got this bad, this fast.
He wonders how his life crumbled from the frame so fast.
He thinks then disregards just how it might have been the bottle.
Scratching armpits, stomach and crotch, he wonders about life.
The bottle on the cigarette stained table, again he thirsts.
A scented scarf held to his nose, thoughts of death.
Head hung low, sweet friend no longer relaxing.
A sunny day, a warm sticky afternoon, trying to relax
in a stuffy room. She shimmers white but fast
she is gone. Gone now into the arms of death,
the cruel/kind equalizer now hid by the bottle.
He realizes just how much he thirsts, that thirst
that grips him when he thinks of her. This is not life.
He swallows a bitter pill as he remembers who made this life.
Another poignant draught calms him but he cannot relax.
Straight out of the bottle, ethyl tasting, but the thirst
is not sated. Finger upon the steel; fast, oh so fast
it would be the release. The bottle now empty, the bottle
once so full. He sees with double vision death.
Her death drove him to this as he drove her to her death.
The bottle shattered against the wall, remnants of life.
Myriad reflective shards of glass, a broken bottle.
Slumped in his ripped throne, he admonishes himself to relax.
But the voice is empty, his thoughts flicker too fast.
Reaching for the bottle, it is for life he thirsts.
The cold steel in mouth quenches a more profound thirst.
Red showers in a place that has always been death.
Memories like shards of glass, the rush of flying so fast.
As he does, away now, away always. Blood of life,
now soaked up by the impassive carpet, as he slumps relaxed
always. Blood flecked shards of glass, blood from a broken bottle
