The spilt merlot weaving
across the kitchen counter
reminds me of Moses,

his staff stirring the Nile
into a bloody sauce.
Or, if I circle my finger

in the wine’s dark hue,
it becomes a hurricane
gathering shards of salt

like clouds — or a galaxy
swirling its arms across
this forgotten space beneath

the microwave, but it’s only
a trickle of merlot that will bruise
a kitchen sponge. The glass

lying on the counter,
a cut flower, needs to be refilled.
We’ll drink together in the dim

light that hides you
from the mess I’ve made.

© by S. Thomas Summers
Used with permission.