When your heart fermented into wine
Did you finally find /
your heart— /
so vivid and crisp /
when last we saw it? /
Is it a red wine now, /
found at room temperature /
in your creaking cellar /
where you store the things /
you’re afraid to face at night? /
Or is it a white wine, /
chilled like ice, /
cold-blooded now, /
no longer a foggy bottle collecting /
my dusty tears /
and your musty sighs? /
Did the leaves that you glued on as patches /
ever fall off /
to expose free blood flow? /
Were the sharp colors /
the first to go? /
Did it shrink into itself, /
like a sun-tanning raisin, /
or my tightly pursed lips? /
Or did it swell /
from all you never let it feel, /
and all I tried to fill it with? /
Can you tell one part, one love, /
from another, anymore? /
Has it all become one blurry lump? /
Do you remember where this thing goes? /
I’ll ask you these /
the next time someone looks at you /
and says they want to see your sky. /
Did you say it back? /
And knowing you, /
you’ll dip your head /
back beneath the waves /
rather than meet my gaze /
over your glass of wine. /
Room temperature or chilled? I ask. /
You don’t know. /
Because that’s just a Shirley Temple /
you’re drinking there, /
no hint of alcohol /
to impair /
your already tangled thoughts. /
You’ll repeat all my questions but one /
to yourself, /
in the night, /
knowing well each answer, /
as you begin to dream of a world /
where you know the difference /
between a white wine and a red— /
where you have ever tasted /
one or the other. /
And as the nighttime deafens you, /
with no more questions /
from you or from me, /
and no more half-hearted /
I don’t knows, /
you know the answer /
to the question you left out, /
too— /
it’s wailing from the silence /
in your chest.
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