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Anthony Beal


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Notes
Wine drinkers . . . we all have our "rough nights" . . . "When morning dawns/ On claret-soaked bedsheets/ Like crime scenes,/ Like sacrificial altars . . . "

This poem deserves more than a single read- through.  Rich.  

Some interesting word-play here, beginning with the title.  Also take a second look at the woman's name featured in this poem:
 MERlindia LOTharia . . . 
-S. H. Bass  


More Anthony Beal at
vintagewinepoems.com
For The Road
Little Apples of Sanlúcar
Maenad
Sophisticates
Tasting Stars
ViniVitiVici


About Anthony Beal:
Anthony Beal is a food blogger and WSET3 wine scholar. The creator of Food, Wine, and Spirits Blog, FlavorfulWorld.com, he currently resides in the Washington, D.C. area, and is a member in good standing of the American Institute of Wine & Food, the International Wine Guild, the Society of Wine Educators, and the French Wine Society.  Anthony has earned a Cellar Manager certification through the International Wine Guild as well as a Hospitality and Beverage Specialist Certificate from the Society of Wine Educators. When he isn’t cooking and/or eating delicious things, he enjoys traveling, reading, studying Japanese language and culture, and being a devoted husband and father.


Anthony Beal on the Web:
Fixed/Sated
By Anthony Beal, American poet
 
I was alone
The first time I heard
The emptied jug laugh.
On its side in my bed,
Lying where she had lain,
Its neck and mine
Smeared with lipstick,
It scoffed at the hopes
I whispered into it.
I whispered her name in after them,
And the laughter stopped,
Long enough for me to
Wish that it hadn’t.
Merlindia Lotharia,
My aria of dreaming and drowning,
Diving from one
Gutted pretense to the next.
Her handlers stand behind their masks
And greet me by name in places I’ve never been,
The emptied jug
Pushing drinks and marked cards
Into my hands; hands still wet, still warm
From tearing silks, from clutching wine-sweetened breast.
It laughs loudest
When I’m dancing on my stomach and hers.
It deafens
When morning dawns
On claret-soaked bedsheets
Like crime scenes,
Like sacrificial altars
Flavored with security deposits I’ll never see back.
Officers and landladies crowd my doorway,
To hold scowling contests that blur at the corners.
It laughs hardest when I break it
Against the nightstand edge,
Bloodied knuckles feverish
With rampant mania that leaves her sore
The way she demands I do, growing angry if I don’t.
Its shards raise mocking choruses
To the glitter and rouge trailing across my chest,
To emaciated wallets and unpaid bills,
To cupboards deserted but for the cockroaches
Creeping amidst secret cobweb fortresses.
They’re starving too, slowly,
And it makes me laugh.
Lord, it feels good to laugh.
The emptied jug laughs back at me from a future of ink,
From tomorrow night
Where awaits Merlindia Lotharia
For us to hurt each other like man and wife,
And pretend until dawn to want more than what we have.



© 2015 Anthony Beal .  All Rights Reserved.


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