take your hand off of that bottle of wine.
your lips and teeth are purple,
(I wish it was because you've been eating blueberries again,)
and you've forgotten to wash the red away
with water and whiskey,
or whiskey and water,
or whisky over ice in a short glass.

don't tell your therapist that I'm your favorite person
these days.  don't tell me about telling her about
how you feel.  it's not been long enough since you
burned your father for me to think you're ready 
to be well.

everyone is jealous of you except for me, and
your beau likes me for that.  everyone is worried
for you and no one will speak.  it's a fine red mess
here Esther: wine, so much of it, again, still.

the cat is sleeping on the porch; you drink
your way through the house wearing a slip, like
a movie star from the 40s,
(your beau's dry cleaner thinks you're in film,
everyone else says, "Esther, she's special,"
as if you weren't human and wine and sleeping 
pills wouldn't kill you as fast as that.)

you eat a dinner of cheese; you want
a massage; you want this life to hurt or not hurt;
you want to call me your favorite person,
and when you do your words run together,
your hair falls over your eye, your slip is
askew, your wine glass is at too much of an
angle, and I can't hear you say it.