The Green Bottle
Ballad of the nectar
Moon of tinted glass,
how you pierce the throat of night.
The hibiscus trees weep poison.
They weep poison.
*
In the yard, crows circle
an empty chair where my father sat.
His shadow drinks from red rivers,
rivers that flow nowhere but down.
*
The crickets know my name.
They scrape it against their legs
while K-9s urinate on the rosemary leaves,
dry and yellow in morning light.
*
Three glasses stand like eucalyptus trees.
Three graves of crystal.
My father's voice shook
like wind-torn leaves.
Like wind-torn leaves.
*
The moon fills each glass with the nectar,
with memory, with thorns.
Below consciousness, a river flows.
Red river. River of thorns.
River of no return.
About the Creator
G. A. Botero
I have a million bad ideas, until a good one surfaces. Poetry, short stories, essays.
Resist.
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Day 4 of Quitting
If this is how sobriety feels, maybe it’s better to go through life a little buzzed… this, along with other hits like, I want to kill myself, I wish I was dead, and I’m going to throw myself off a bridge have been the only thoughts on rotation these past few days. I promise myself that if, in a month, I still feel like this (‘this’ meaning despondent, full of rage, and simultaneously numb) I can go back to smoking. Until mid-February though? Nicotine is off the table.
By sleepy drafts5 days ago in Longevity
Comments (1)
This sure was very profound. Loved your poem!