Wine is the mixture of water and blood.

My mother to me the old saying says
that blood is thicker than water.
These words together are cause to heat
and I return: I will not wear that badge on my heart
because your family has abandoned you and your children.

We are water.

My mother has been scapegoat
for these god-fearing people too long,
since at least the first years of my thinking mind
and for all those years I grew in anger.

Now it is only death that can cause such words to be on tongue.

I have since found peace
and I have found much of myself.
They are not bad people
though they have no idea
what they have done.

And the most genuine must go first.
Of course.

At the last supper I had to get up
with the closure of prayer
when the man's voice cracked
in his weakling state knowing
he was about to die.

Mary had held my weeping head earlier
in her tired arms and told me only
to not have him see me this way.

So I had left the table to share my sorrow with emptiness
though there I had found my mother.

The man can't see our love made manifest?

The man went to see and signed the cheque for his own resting place,
was that not harder for him?

These days of torture, mama.
These days of absolute pain.

We washed our faces
with cold water
and sat ourselves back down.

Mary put food in my plate
though I could not tolerate the idea
of feasting.

My mother offers me wine
the man himself has made.

This I did not pass.

Following my second glass
among the voices of an ancient language
I spoke out:

One of my earliest memories was making
this recipe of wine
taking off my socks and my shoes
to crush the grapes with my little feet.
He had held my hands as I walked through the pool
feeling juice creep between my toes.

He told me stories of Italy that day.

They could not believe I remembered this
but I shared details to have them believe.
He could not speak, but acknowledged that he heard.
This man who has never done wrong
who had given up his dreams for a simple life
with a name Of the Grapes
for he was born on a vineyard.

I drink the wine. Red like sweetened blood.

I was strong to not let tears find me then, retelling the story
but now is a different Time.
Neither He nor Mary are with me
so they will never know.

In our case, mother
we are water who drink the wine.

In our case, mother
Wine is thicker than blood.