Emalisa Rose

Booze, bondage, B. Street

I grabbed two from the cupboard, 
left by his ex-wife, Maria.

“Forget the glasses,” he said. 
“We’re far from the crystal type.”

It was cheap vineyard grape, along
with the left of the leftovers, we threw
in with the Sunday night sauce.

So we chugged it straight up, then 
played in his den; whips, chains and
cabernet, clinking our bottles. Two

etch a sketched poets, bare feet on land
mines, in uncharted fields, where
we’d landed this moment - a moment
best left, undefined.

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