The American Boss
I woke up to my mother vomiting red wine
into the kitchen sink, so much that it began rising.
This wasn’t just red wine, but from France, Bordeaux
where her boss recently vacationed.
The tannins-she’s lecturing me on tannins-
think about all the tannins resveratrol look it up
anti-aging life-extension immortality:
the wine was plum red
darker than blood on a dimly lit evening
when your finger is pricked
but your eyes have long acclimated
to the dark.
A bum on the subway said,
a species destroys itself when it discovers itself.
I would be no father, require no mother, forbid a child
to a lifetime working. Now rifling through her red puke
guts prosciutto salami pâté she despised, worried
it was blood worried she would aspirate aspirate,
my duty was to find her wedding ring
she says must have slipped off somewhere.
There are many places to look: the cabs, the clubs,
the best friend who pocketed it
as the many living men may have thought
she was married to a living man.
Men, I wonder what the big deal
is with them anyways
as she hooks the ring out an undigested
ball of mozzarella.
Brandon Shane (he/him) is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can see his work in Rattle, trampset, Variant Lit, The Chiron Review, Stone Circle Review, IceFloe Press, The Marrow Poetry, One Art Poetry, among others. He graduated from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English. Find him on Twitter @HalfTheLobster
Banner/art: Street Haunt, a visual poem by Robert Frede Kenter. Robert is a writer & visual artist & curates Ice Floe Press. IG: r.f.k.vispocityshuffle; icefloe22.
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