Dionysus Skips the Party
They see you as party and wine, mixing grapes and holy ecstasy
all for ruby nights and a god-like sense.
They see your hand is steady
as it goes for the drink.
When the crowds form, your heart swallows itself,
opening your stomach like a hearse welcoming a coffin.
You’ve heard of the beetles found in the mouths of strangers
who thank you for the pleasures you pore them,
for the vines you plant that bear the fruits
needed too fill the bottle.
They crawl out from their cheeks as a memory of the empty cup
that quickly turns into seven empty bottles and a fight.
But you continue to boast about your indulgences,
like an art,
because even if the liquor burns it isn’t poison when you drink it right,
or when you’re empty enough to hold it.
You say this,
and you drink yourself further away from your body.
Your guilt tries to convince you that next time,
you’ll drink a little less.
you’ll stay home.
But when they call, asking where you are, how will you tell them
about your fear of being found in the woods
By Alessia Di Cesare
Alessia Di Cesare is a self-proclaimed poet based in Canada, and an undergraduate student studying English Literature at the University of Ottawa. In 2014, she received a Silver Key for her poetry submission in the Scholastic’s Art & Writing Awards. Her work can be found in literary magazines such as Persephone’s Daughters, The Ottawa Arts Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, in the first volume of the “Prose.” Anthologies, and on her personal blog, http://www.featherumbrellas.tumblr.com