The Evening After

One evening, tired of games and each other,

we spent watching our reflections on a screen

— four in a two-seater, angling like sardines.

For a dog’s hair I’d milked the wine, uttered

words like, “that’s the cure!” swiveled

the puckering glass like a mock-dandy,

blood slushing at my temples, until the spill,

a fatal expression on the white and navy,

ruined the smoothness past salvation. A cough

of salt, the patting of the fabric, perhaps enough.