copyright © 2003 Laura Tuggle Anderson

Half Full

Prose poem/monologue

Written in 1998

By Laura Tuggle

2461 Breckinridge Mill Road

Fincastle, Virginia 24090

(540) 473-1769

ltanderson@hollins.edu

 

 

Wine distills me. I am silk in her hands, her fluttering hands explaining something to me, but all I see is the milky white of her hands, long slender fingers for picking fruit and rolling the tips over my tongue. Perhaps she senses my wandering eyes and catches my drift and that is why she swallows the last of her Merlot bravely with one flick of her hand. A parched thought, my throat coats my words slurred to her, I want to say these things. Instead I feel my palms heating the orb of my glass like a breast warming to my touch.

She clinks her rings on her glass; the glass is now down on the coffee table. Suddenly, her face contorts cruelly like a melting clown and mine drunkenly mimics this mirror — Houston, we have a problem. Her hands fly up to her face, too late; she breathes in deeply and blows out sharply, the droplets of her sneeze, delicate thick liquid, land on my forehead and glasses. My glass of wine I find I’d covered the opening with the palm of my hand. Ashamed to see my own hand betraying me — wouldn’t I want my lover to sneeze in my wine, bless the sacred cup before blessing my dark draught with those same lips? She laughs so I laugh and place half full — half empty? — glass on the table and splattered eyeglasses beside. Animal nuzzle her neck with my face, nudge a moan from behind her earlobe, and rid my forehead of her sticky stuff. Suddenly sober and wondering, just wondering, if she will give me a cold.

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