by Claire Trévien
The weather's gained weight,
sags its pebbled belly against the tips
of the city's horns.
I've slumped, waiting for it to decide,
grotesque piñata, whether to burst
or rapture itself away.
The world has ended, or, at least,
most people have. I am no Avenger:
I have found wine spared
in collapsed cellars; it tastes of hills
now plucked out of reach. Grapes
have been crushed, made to sour
for my pleasure. Unwaged fingers
now mingle with the vines
while the wine runs down my throat.
Broken bottles, broken sky: red rain
heaves out of the cracked world.
I open my mouth for communion.
• From The Shipwrecked House, published by Penned in the Margins, RRP £8.99.