Machete Poem by Val Morehouse

_________For William, who performed this ritual...


Sealed with gases vivid as a flock of monarchs,
pooled wine waits in a black bottle to
lay spice on the body of the glass;

and, for him, who will step from the shadows
with a knife. Carousing from Spain
to Bodega, this one has lain

wantonly with the grape. Now ripe
for the perfect minute, his machete lifts
in the blink of a coquette’s eyelash,

and guillotines the head neatly from the neck.
One lost puff of breath rolls
dark and wet into the honeysuckle.

As “ahs” press aloud from the bouquet of blossoms,
we stretch our glasses to catch the fresh
champagne foaming from death of summer.