Red Wine Spills
by L. Ash Williams

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I am hovering over this rug
with a hair dryer on high in my hand
I have finally, inevitably, spilled
red wine on this impractically white
housewarming hand-me-down from my cousin, who 
clearly, and incorrectly, thought this was a good idea 
 
With the help of a little panic,
sparkling water and a washcloth,
I am stunned by how quickly the wine washes out, 
how I was sure this mistake would find me
every day with its gaping mouth, reminding me
of my own propensity for failure
and yet, here I am
with this clean slate 
 
The rug is made of fur, 
which means it died
to be here 
 
It reminds me of my own survival 
and everyone who has taught me 
to shake loose the shadow of death 
 
I think of inheritance, how this rug
was passed on to me through blood, 
how this animal gave its blood
so that I may receive the gift of its death 
and be grateful for it 
 
I think of our inability
to control stories of origin
how history does not wash away 
with water and a good scrub 
 
I think of evolution,
what it means to make it through 
this world with your skin intact, 
how flesh is fragile
but makes a needle and thread
of itself when necessary 
 
I think of all that I have inherited,
all the bodies buried for me to be here 
and stay here, how I was born with grief 
and gratitude in my bones 
 
And I think of legacy,
how I come from a long line of sorcerers 
who make good work of building
joy from absolutely nothing 
 
And what can I do with that 
but pour another glass, 
thank the stars
for this sorceress blood 
and keep pressing forward 

"Red Wine Spills" by L. Ash Williams. Used by permission of the poet.