The Vineyard

There is a vineyard that he keeps

in the belly of a valley I can see

from the corner of my bedroom

window, one eye pressed to glass.

And the fruit swells red and shiny.

There is a ram that he keeps

guarding the lines, horns an arched

crown, blood-black swords; he calls

it Bacchus, sometimes, Baph,

or Dog. Its eyes see you sideways.

There are foxes that he keeps

shooting and hanging by their tails

from the fencepost. I hear their screams

long into the night. Wake with eyes

and mouth as red as the morning sky.

There is a fire that he keeps

stoked. I never see it but smell the

ashen coals burn, watch flakes

coat the ram’s fur and the fruit

and the glass of my two good eyes.

There is a man that keeps

to himself, out there by the vineyard;

no one seems to see him but

I do: see his eyes, shiny, see his

crown, black horns and grapevines.

***

Deanie Vallone (she/her) is a Wisconsin-based writer and theater-maker. Her writing can be found in Arboreal Magazine, Star*line, Booth, and other publications. When not writing, she trains birds of prey and brews beer (though not at the same time, for safety reasons). You can follow her writing adventures on Instagram: @seedeanwrite.