ISSN 1758-6488
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Four Poems Poetry |
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The Vine
One thought is the white vine
in the shed, by which we’re both
quite spooked. The bramble
that appeared out front last week
took our heaviest knife,
but still posed less a threat
than this anemic freak, maybe
since she hadn’t said a thing
before it had turned the corner behind
the luggage and started up the wall.
The metaphor was too obvious, initially.
Vines? I turned to Dionysus’
double-birth, hoping that might tie it
to Caravaggio’s early portrait
where he comes across so sickly himself.
But there was nothing in the reference
to relieve the sense of intrusion
and inevitability as it continues to climb,
against all decency, nothing
to ally us again on any terms but fear.
