Grape Soda

Abstract realist imagery with hues of purple, black, and streaks of neon red

By Valerie Perreault

I was in a ring of salt.

I was living on this island.

I was an island.

I was sleeping in my car.

No, I was crying in there.

I was standing on the deck

behind the house by the canal

plucking Dorito bags out of the water.

I was saying goodbye to my prettiness.

I was chipping my new manicure. I was eating all of the grapes with

coffee ice cream. I was a little chubby, but nice.

I was writing poems by the side of the pool,

the blue curtains.

I was in my sanctuary in the empty apartment with all of those windows

and no money, but blue curtains.

I was covered in sea salt.

I was salty. I was missing my mom.

I was listening to an old voicemail.

I was hiding in the art gallery in the middle of the night.

I was laying on the floor.

I was waiting for the spins to stop.

I was hoping God was with me.

I’m sure God was with me.

I was driving drunk.

I was lost.

I was turning around by a police car.

The police car was empty.

I was empty.

I was not wanting to drunk dial anyone.

I came home for my dog.

I stayed home for my dog.

I was missing my mom.

I was replaying scenes from death young by cancer.

I was wondering if I have to speak of her

as a saint now that she is dead.

I was wondering if saying dead is too harsh for some readers,

is too harsh for me, I keep saying it. The shape of it in my mouth.

I spilled her ashes in the hotel room.

I floated in the pool with some Germans.

I played Johnny Cash at her funeral.

We thought she had an asthma attack.

It was a stroke; I was taking her for a walk.

She said I’m trying to kill her.

She said I hated her, but no, she hated me.

The priest left the room backwards.

She covered her face with her arms.

She wanted grape soda.

She wanted cases of grape soda.

She wanted palates of grape soda.

The last thing she made me was a pineapple cake.

The last thing she gave me was a box of blue curtains.

She left me that voicemail,

she told me to put on a coat,

she looked me straight

in the eye

and she died.

Valerie Perreault is a poet, visual artist, and owner Portside Studio & Gallery in Islamorada, Florida. Islamorada is a fishing village of small islands just a hop from Key West. She is a finalist for the New Letters Literary Awards in poetry, received an honorable mention in the May Sarton New Hampshire Poetry Prize, a fellowship recipient of the SLS Unified Literary Contest in Lithuania and Kenya, and a scholarship recipient to the Palm Beach Poetry Festival. Her work has been featured on HBO, PBS Art Loft, Buzzfeed, GOOP, Book Riot, Brit.co, Scottish Book Trust, Green Chair Press, and more. Recent writing can be found in Swamp Ape Review, Delmarva, Bluestem, and Zone3 Press.