Member Poem

She hands me a wine glass
big enough to drown in

notes of yellow –
fragile winter roses,
candles scored like aged pointed fingers –

We make a wasted centerpiece
of the bird,
mix olives & Christmas spice;
brandy vapors ignite –
lap like dogs’ tongues.

I decline lychees
with slimy esophagus-sized stones.

He’s seated opposite –
fire and ice – sugar icing cracks,
cherry liqueur drips from
the back of his hand.

The conversation turns to limestone soil:
some years ago
they planted male & female kiwi vines –

mine without a house to climb.

(First published in The Miscreant, issue 9C, 2016)