i

oh, this is the wine i drank on the night i became a deer for him and ran out into the darkness and lay beside the river, bleeding until all the life had left me and i could return to him, whole again, safe again, perfect.

of course, he said he still loved me. he said he still cared, but there were so many things he had to do—his clients, his tennis, a porsche or two. so many things.

ii

then early one morning, i arose, tired and old, my hands, my eyes, no longer winsome, no longer lovely, unmarketable.

so he left me to die amongst the berries and the crimson leaves, he left me there to be taken, eaten, by coyote, fox and bear. and this wine became my prayer, my choir, my last communion. and all the crows cried in counterpoint, in glorious triumphant anticipation.

iii

there are times when i drink this wine and i still have dreams and visions. once i became a wandering spirit-woman and once, a rain bird soaring high above the valleys of the santa cruz. and no one cared.

so now if you’re very, very quiet you can hear my ancient flute as it echoes down the mountains, through the vines and mossy stones, tumbling towards the dark, still water of my salvation, where i stop each night beneath a million fragile stars, where i stop each night and leave her things — bourget pants and t-shirts a hello kitty sticker book and M&M’s — lots of M&M’s with peanuts