I know I don’t like pinot
but Maureen always lets me try a sip of her wine anyways.
Catherine hugs as if she’s trying to hold
all your broken pieces back together
The chips taste better when they’re shared. The beer
tastes better out of someone else’s cup.
Emily’s voice always climbs louder and louder as the night goes on
her laughter expanding into every corner of the house.
When Samantha drinks she doodles her name
across anything she can find in big swirling letters:
Kleenex boxes, the pizza menu, all your bills.
It’s been fourteen months and eleven days
and I’m starting to crave pinot.
All the beer tastes bitter. All the chips cut at the roof of my mouth
get stuck in my throat.
I dream that I try to call someone on the phone,
but I open my mouth and all my teeth clatter out.
I reach for the front door but my arms pop off and float away.
I wake to a quiet house and dampness on my cheeks.
I reach for the Kleenex box and it’s right where I left it.
Author Bio: Meaghan is a poet from the small town of Belle River, Ontario who has since made her home in Ottawa. When she’s not personifying everyday items, you may find her sharing a bottle of wine with a loved one or cuddled up with her two cats, Oscar and Gilbert. Her poetry has recently appeared in the Scapegoat Review (Winter 2021) and Uppagus (2022). You can follow her poetry journey on instagram at @m_squire_poetry. Her favourite pop is root beer, more specifically, in float form.