Sangreal

The last glass of pinot noir,

blood-dark ruby

gleams in the mirror above the bar

that reflects the half-familiar face,

the man in the shabby

black felt hat, almost the face

of my landlord, or a character

imagined in a story, a tale of pirates

pursuing a ruby, like this, in the depths

of the glass, the spark of fire

in the black crystal.  I imagine,

as the jazz trombonist wails, a woman,

gasping out her last

breath in St.  James’

Infirmary, the whereabouts

of the Ruby, hidden in the rock,

her heart, pulsing, life lines

in the stone, like tendrils

of vine, blooming, leafing, fruiting,

and leaving

behind the nectar, the intoxicating

Pinot Noir, unique, only one glass

remaining, to savor,

to lift in salute,

and drink down—

This Is My Blood.

Liz Huck