I Miss Wine
Janet Kolstein
Red, white, rosé
Decanted and breathing or
straight from the bottle.
In plastic, in crystal.
Nose in a snifter.
With bread and cheese,
with people,
alone,
with tears.
Legs, with memories of the vine,
running down the sides of a glass.
Like rain on a window.
Break-up medication. Artistic desperation.
Anxiety soother, loosener of love/lust.
Sitting on the bed (the three of us) —
laughing so hard I missed my mouth
and spilled Sauvignon Blanc
all over my blouse.
Swishing it around
before it goes down,
a soft weight in my mouth —
slurring words
before they slip out.
Wine with a dartboard,
wine with reservations,
earthy, dry, complex, bright,
a tour of the world
through the culture of grapes.
When I was young,
wine was my voluptuous roommate.
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