Michael's Wine

    Winter again and we want

    the same nocturnal rocking，

    watching cedar¹ spit

    and sketch² its leafy flames，

    our rooms steamy with garlic

    and greasy³ harvest stew⁴.

    Outside frosted windows

    claw marks on yellow pine，

    Venus wobbling in the sky，

    the whole valley a glare of ice.

    We gather in the kitchen

    to make jam from damsons

    and blue Italian prunes⁵，

    last fruit of the orchard⁶，

    sweetest after frost， frothy bushels

    steeping in flecked enamel⁷ pots.

    Michael， our neighbor，

    decants⁸ black cherry wine，

    fruit he ground two years ago，

    bound with sugar， then racked

    and racked again. It's young and dry.

    We toast ourselves， our safety，

    time the brandied savory⁹

    of late November.

    I killed a man this day last year，

    says Michael， while you were away.

    Coming home from town alone，

    you know the place in Lolo where the road

    curves， where the herd¹⁰ of horses got loose

    New Year's Eve， skidded¹¹ around

    white-eyed， cars sliding into them？

    Didn't see the man until my windshield broke.

    Could have been any one of us.

    Twenty-nine years old， half-drunk，

    half-frozen. Red and black hunting jacket.

    Lucky I was sober. We stand there

    plum-stained as Michael's face

    fractures into tics and lines.

    He strokes his wine red beard.

    Michael with no family，

    gentle farmer's hands， tilts¹² the bottle，

    pours a round， as if to toast.

    It was so cold， he says，

    that when it was over，

    he swirls¹³ the distilled¹⁴ cherries

    under a green lamp， there was less

    blood on the pavement than you see

    this moment in my glass.