Jehanne Dubrow



Those months away from you, I teach myself
to cook with wine, admiring the change
a Beaujolais enjoys inside the pot,
its sly divestment of alcohol, slowly
from the heat, like a girl unbuttoning her blouse.
I’m indiscriminate. All reds will do
because you’ve never had a taste for white,
the frigid chardonnay or pinot gris
so chilled it makes the crystal goblet sweat.
You’re loyal to the glass of claret light.
I’m talking warmth and things that need
to breathe before they’re sipped. I mean
the old varietals, picked and stomped on,
a purpled bruise delicious for its pain,
the grapeskin’s shredded gauze. And so I plan
a week of meals that are a lesson in
desiring, like Tristan und Isolde,
where consummation never comes and booze
is an excuse for letting loose again,
again the bottle spilling liquid from
its open mouth, the green neck sticky there,
our tongues discovering the metal tannins
and something close to blood, but sweeter.