Sometimes but not always breaking the rules
I remember without forgivness the
Sangria on men's breath. Not smiling
only thinking of the dishes to wash,
week old wine glasses and their dark stains,
desperately used coffee mugs and plastic cups
when all the crystal is gone, leaving me
at the sink with scarlet rings not washing away.
Hazy air, oxygen making me nauseous, and
drinking men, loud sailors and comedians with
alchohol laughter penetrating the thick,
awkward feeling in my stomach--that never had a taste.
Bitterness about dirty dishes, left out goblets,
sticky stains of noxious depression rising from the water.
They are boys smiling and men frowning
at my disapproval. Sometimes but not always
breaking the rules with my lip at the brim.
Then the young married man putting his arms around me
trapping my hands at his collarbone, laughing softly.
Without escape, smelling a curse, I am
a begging little girl, tasting unfamiliar breath.
Tactile sensation, avoiding the ocean in his eyes,
seeing, flinching foward to drunken infidelities.
Fingers and a wedding ring stroking my palm
still coarse from dish soap, tingling at fingertips that
can't escape. I'm watching him stumble
towards the laughing, cursing men, leaving me
holding a plastic cup full of unwashable rings.
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Submission Name: At the Sink
