Wine Outlook

Readers and drinkers….

El Jefe asked for some poetry, and that reminds me I haven’t written any in a while. (Ok, I was actually already well aware of that). That also reminds me that a few weeks ago I thought about including a poem I wrote several years ago because it made me think of how it was when I intitially decided to give up Wine Outlook. The poem itself came from a fleeting thought during grad school (you know, two jobs and the looming threat of loan repayment) when I briefly considered selling my eggs for however many thousands of dollars.

Sometimes when I write, it’s the attempt at getting into someone else’s head or taking something I feel and turning it into something else. So I imagined what if I had gone through with the procedure, how I would react down the road. And it has been interpreted to be about a woman giving a child up for adoption, which is just taking it to the next level.

So how does this relate to my blog? I mentioned it before:the thought of giving up Wine Outook felt like giving away a baby. I brought it up from nothing, helped it through growing pains, patted its head when it felt bad. So even though I have been absent lately, what with long days at work, scouring rentals in free moments, packing without a destination…. I’m still here. Drinking, reading, exporing, expanding what I know, thanking you for staying on the ride.

And now, the poem, originally published in Susan B & Me: An International Collection of Personal Writings and Photographs by Women of All Ages, Dedicated to the Spirit of Susan B. Anthony, Champion of Women’s Rights.

Child, I Could Have Had

It was for money, you see. You must understand. The bills, they piled up weekly, and I had to have groceries and gas. A night out every now and then. Sushi. That pink dress. I didn’t want children—you weren’t even lighter fluid on charcoals, not a burning bead of thought. That might have come later. So I searched for ways to make cash when the tips weren’t good. Plasma seemed cliché, and no one sought a tutor. Then I opened the paper one afternoon, and there it was: a small sacrifice, giving away something I didn’t want. What are a few hours, a few days of pain compared to more money than I had ever seen before? Now, these years later, my calico is curled at the foot of my bed and five garbage bags sit on my front steps, waiting for the man from Good Will.

There you go.