Ruth Z Deming

Alan and Elaine’s gift of pinot noir
for my 70th birthday
sits unopened on the counter.

How can I drink the bones
of the good Doctor
Allende bespectacled president
of Chile? A bullet pierced
his brain, a man who dressed
each morning in suit and tie
after rinsing off his
eyeglasses. His country
not yet ready for justice and
fair distribution of land.
His family fled to Havana
leaving his bones shivering
and alone, unloved, uncared for.

At midnight one January
I walk into my dark
kitchen, stars twinkling
out the window, and grab the shapely
“made in Chile” bottle and
twist off the cap
with a satisfying click!

I pour the chilled wine
into a small white
coffee cup, sniff it, then hold it in the
dark kitchen, near the window bursting
with stars. I cry out
“Doctor Allende! I am
here with you now. I will pour
your blood down my
throat, slowly, with
admiration, and you will
be lonesome no more.”