Foxes and the Bacchanal — Iz Maxwell


ISSUE VII: CONFESSIONS

Medium: Poetry

Instagram: @iso.maxwell @d.iz.igns



I remember a night two years ago after

Two too many glasses of prosecco, I

Went to the kitchen to wet my face and knocked

A glass to the floor;

I remember how you stared at me

Amongst all that broken glass and wine;

And how I held my hand out, bleeding

And neither of us moved as the blood pooled

And rolled and dripped

Onto my bare feet with their chipped nails and the glass

Sparkling;

Sometimes still I feel the spin

Amongst all that broken glass

Holding out my bleeding hand

Knowing I have failed to hide my drunken state

Knowing I cannot fix this broken thing

That I cannot move an inch

Guiltily retrieving a little beauty

From the glitter of the faces, broken in the glass

And you are standing there, staring back

Eyes glazed with the heat of people

In other rooms, talking lightly

Of neon over-lights and cold

laminated tiles.



Cover image: Mister Fox; 1870; R. Shugg & Co., New York

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