Poetry / Plum Wine

It swirls in the bottom,
plum wine in a crystal glass,
sweet and potent splashed over
my tongue with chicken stir fry.
It reminds me of cooking for you
or orange chicken at Triple 8's,
and so many things do this to me.
Memories are just as sweet
as a glass of plum wine at midnight.

The laundry buzzer blares at three past the hour,
reminding me of the quiet in my house
and the quiet in my heart, it is so silent.
Quiet drenches the sound of the television,
the washing machine, the dishwasher.
It is all so common and domestic, dry and bitter.

Though wine is sweet, my mouth is hungry,
not my stomach, and it craves your lips,
afternoon cigarettes and morning sex,
the taste of the skin of your nipples
and the gasping of your breath
when I made you wet.

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