My Heart Keeps Asking for Another Glass of Wine

My heart keeps asking for another glass
of wine. It says every rose has its thorns
but slender stemmed wine glasses don't.

It encourages me to leave the bottle
out, beside the burrata, the olives, baguette—
a small tribute to France

because my heart has been helping me pretend
we've moved to Paris

where warm spring rain kisses carousels and babies
and cigarettes have filters for ugliness

and we could neglect to wash our hair or
shave our legs and armpits and no one

would notice. In Paris, I could be No One
with a heart of dry white wine.

I'd save every bottle, and slip a note
inside, notes like,

"Could you love me when I'm absolutely still?" and,

"What makes the loudest noise?" and,

"What if our signs are incompatible?" and,

"Even if you were deathly afraid, could you have faith in me?"

My heart wants to know these answers. I'd line
the bottles in my yard.

Then I would busy myself, walking amongst
the lithe, lovely Parisians. I would traipse
through the gardens and visit Monet
at the museum. I'd dance at the discotheque
and recline in the grass at public concerts.
I would work for a magazine published
with striking, glossy covers.

And soon, it would be summer.

By then, the sun would have faded the ink
of every note I'd written. By then
I would like to think I'd be
a stronger person.

My heart would have its answers,
and I would be at peace.

.