Red wine makes me sick

"Red wine makes me sick," she said
"Especially after beer,
and pot,
and gin,
and tonic,
yes, especially then,

red wine makes me sick,"
she said,
to me,
as I put my ear to her stomach
and listened to the

BHUUMP-BUMMPH-BOOMP-BOMMPH

and the

GURRGLE-WURRGLE-URGLE-WERGEL

"Can you hear it?" she said

"The red wine's making me sick,"
she said,
to me,
as I listened,
to her stomach,
and felt her breath on the back of my neck,
and felt her fingers
under my chain
and under my chin
feeling the thin,
thin,
blue-collar-fingers
fiddle and faddle with my chain.

"Red wine makes me sick," she said
and I thought of a thousand questions to ask her
questions I could never ask her
questions she would never want me to ask her
questions like

"If I took your slender, muscled arm
and kissed your elbow
and took your hand
and put it over my heart
and said 'never take that hand away...'

...would you really never?"

"When I kiss your eyelids
and you smile impercertibly...
does that mean you like it?"

"If I wrote a poem about you
and performed it at the Green Mill
and announced to the world
how excited you made me
when you jumped on me
and how my neck
was ready to snap
from the position we were in
off the couch
and onto the floor...

If I wrote a poem to you
and performed it at the Green Mill...

would you hate me for it?"

"And when my neuroses start spilling out of me
spurred by the excitement
of touching your naked stomach...

Can I trust them with you?
Can I trust you with them?
Can I trust you with me?
Can I trust me with you?
Can I trust anything with anyone
and anybody with this body,
this body lying in my bed,
fingering my chain,
yanking my chain,
grasping my back
and attacking my lips?"

"Red wine makes me sick," you said
so I asked you the only question
I knew you'd really want to hear...

"Well... would you like some Advil?"

"Um, sure, yeah. That'd be great."

Copyright 1997, Jason Pettus. All rights reserved.