Steve Klepetar

On My Wrist

I wrote your name on my wrist
with my bad handwriting,

and somehow the letters formed
a pattern of leaves, or vines,

that grew and stretched
down my arm, tickling my flesh

as tendrils spread, and purple
grapes burst out of every stem

because you have always been
wine, swirling in my glass –

such good legs – a vintage
fragrant, sweet, intoxicating, wild.

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Steve Klepetar wishes that he could see Proteus rising from the sea and hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

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