I hold a Bordeaux

I hold a Bordeaux

The glass tapered so the wine ignores the tongue
worms down the throat into the brain’s meaty pit.
In the browning edge she says something I miss.
The glass crumbles like an eggshell. A few drops bleed
into the table’s grain. Disappear. I hold
the glass, a broken bird that slapped a window,
still aloft so she could see. Or like a peony
slumped on the asphalt defeated by the morning dew.
Did grief constrict my grip? Is wine preserved
like the yoke in a broken belly? But my palm
is washed. Red drains down my wrist, sticks my jeans
against a leg. Make the anger run more rampant.
More glasses would survive and I could feel the shard.