1969 Beaulieu Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon
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I don't know
what kind of wine I like,
but he likes to ask me anyway.
I think it makes him feel as if
I shouldn't feel
I lick my lips; they're maroon tonight.
I've drenched them in a stain gloss
fished out of my mother's dresser.
I bat my lashes
and bite my tongue
until the blood tracks down my neck and into my chest
right through my dress
and straight towards my knees.
It pools in my shoes; they're black tonight,
colored in with sharpie
where the paint