Maltese wine

a night like jewelry at a funeral (black, lights,
you get it, etc) and a bitter glass of red maltese
cabernet sauv – the last bottle, brought
from the airport from malta
because we thought what they sold there
would have to be good. turns out it’s garbage:
quite light, and I don’t hate a red
which lacks body automatically,
but you need a full mouthful
to detect any flavour – my wife took a sip,
made a face and retired to bed.
anyway, a kind of occasion to have it –
tomorrow their first daughter’s christening!
(sorry – explanation: we bought the wine coming
home after their destination wedding six months ago
and since gotten married ourselves). I raise up a toast
by myself with a glass in the kitchen between
writing poems. I’m barefoot, my socks outside
dripping with piss from the dog who’s gone old
and loose-bladdered. to saoirse,
celine and to thomas I say, and then with index
fingers I type out this poem. I try to get everything
relevant into it – talk mainly of wine though
and how I don’t like it, and don’t even mention
how sick the dog’s been since the kennels.

DS Maolalai has been nominated eleven times for Best of the Net, eight for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in three collections, most recently Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019) and Noble Rot (Turas Press, 2022)