Old Grey Friend
We unearth old bottles, the unbroken one
our treasure – suddenly bees bubble up
bursting behind us as we fly out of the woods.
Elbows and knees pump,
ramparts of open air can’t hold back the picadors.
We said it must’ve been your flaxen hair,
flashing like a matador’s cape.
Dad scoops mud, smooth and cool
in his mason-rough hands.
He hums low, soothes your stinging welts,
raises an eyebrow at me.
The cool tap water
baptizes our bottle,
washes away the bottle dump dirt –
fills it with weight.
Red food coloring drops,
unfurl into the world of water,
their tiny, wispy banners
blend into a tide of bottled sea.
On the sill’s ledge, in the sunlight
it stands, blood-red brilliance.
from my bed I’m transfixed
by our ruby-baptized bottle dump find
and I wonder how those piercing rays
can cut right through glass
without causing any pain at all.