Dear Digital Diary

Dear Digital Diary,

I haven’t written anything of importance in a little under a month, but I did write a poem.

Miss Merlot

As a child I skipped to the playground

Sick of being inside 

To which I now only venture when I’m

Brain-sick or

Belly-sick.

I resort to the sway of a swingset and

Casual conversation with my best friend —

She and I don’t talk much but

Silence settles me.

She’s a dusty bottle of Merlot

That lives on my kitchen counter

Behind the 

My real best friend

Lives in Crested Butte.

She talks better than Merlot.

As it turns out

No child plays on the playground in winter

Like they used to.

Instead they go and

Slide down the tallest hills with 

Neighborhood kids they didn’t

Know yesterday and 

Fall into the powder that

Towers over their heads.

Snow gets into their boots and

Clings in clumps 

On the fibers of their gloves when they 

Go inside to shake off the outdoor chill —

Faces tinged pink with 

Snot running down frostbitten noses

That start to bleed from the cold —

Yet they laugh.

It’s precipitating now.

I swing back and

Forth and 

Back again

Merlot tossing about in the bottle

Sloshing over the sides

Splattering deep red over the back of my hand and

Into the snow —

Maroon meant for my tongue 

Melt the flakes in an instant

Bleeding into the soil of the earth where the

Flora grows in springtime and where 

The worms thrive and 

The dead things decompose

Somewhere six feet under.

I stub the toe of my shoe 

Into the ground

Where the Merlot sank

Until I’ve dug up a beet-sized grave

Realizing I’ll return anon

To the body of The Mother

Sooner than I’d like.