Alexis, Drunk Again

In your stupor

you speak of butterflies

on your bed, their beau

motif of wings—

embossed

upon your blanket,

dreaming they leap in

flight

throughout your slumber,

coming back

before the dawn

with nectar’s scent,

wafting round your sheets

as if some Wonka factory,

my assumption

you’re a youngster

you’re descanting,

ignorant you have

your dentures

in a glass upon

your nightstand,

and unaware your

parents

drove out madly

to the store—the crash

in ’71,

in answer

to your cravings

that fatal moonrise—

liquorice, taffy,

bonbons au chocolat,

crying when the

kids at school

were laughing you’re a girl!

Much too sweet

a child

to be a boy; the pitting

of your molars

one-by-one,

as you aged

in sugar-grey.

I will leave you to

your wine, your ‘25

Merlot, your I only drink it

for the fructose, 

its promise to

offer pardon

every swig, this cloy

and bitter chalice

of the grape.

Andreas Gripp

May 7, 2025

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