I spilled red wine on
your sweater tonight, the one
I got after you died.
Just over a year ago, a dear friend passed away from an agressive cancer. She was a vibrant, no-nonesense person who knew what she liked, what she didn’t, and wasn’t afraid to tell you. Her house was always immaculate, but if you were lucky, she’d mail you birthday cards filled with confetti that would spill out upon opening, leaving your own floors in need of a broom.
I wrote today’s haiku about her and then tried to expand it into a more fully formed poem. It was really hard. They painting is an image I’ve painted before, but this time the figure is a bit more burdened, a bit less care-free.
Crying over spilled wine
I spilled red wine on
your sweater tonight, the one
I got after you died.
And I thought about you–
drinking wine
Without messes
It’s wine time
you would say
Pulling out a stemless glass
From a perfectly organized cabinet
But I am careless–
no neatly stacked cloth cocktail napkins
always at the ready
I am sorry.
not just for the wine–
that I am wearing your sweater
that we aren’t toasting each other on the patio
I am sorry
that when I pull it over me
I cry a little
And that sometimes I don’t
Your sweater now stained with a little bit of me
Like this poem
Like this grief