suck down
the stories
of women
who overcame
with the same voraciousness
you used
to suck down
shiraz
on a thursday night
consume
literature
that animates
the unlived life
bubbling up
in your breast
with the same enthusiasm
you used
to consume
champagne
at sunday brunch
sharpen
your senses
to what already exists
with the same broadening
you used
to come alive
at the thought
of a popped cork
before 4 pm
wrap
the flesh of your fingers
around a pen
with the same
desperation
you used
to grip
the stem of a wine glass
that night
you realized
this wasn’t
the life
you signed up for
swirl
the suede
of small moments
in the cup
of your heart
with the same relish
you used
to swirl
the velvet
of a pinot noir
around a table
of shadows
close
your eyes
and savor the aroma
of snow-drenched earth
in january
with the same intensity
you used
to inhale
fumes of merlot
in Napa
that summer
you lost
. . . to it
channel
your thirst
for “finer things”
into
a quest
for hidden things
that tell stories
of a woman
who’s
. . . become . . .