8-4-09
The Wino Confesses Her Addiction
He's a ripe grape, crushed, strained, bottled, fermented.
When he finally comes to me, he's finely aged, full-bodied,
with dry overtones,
and most importantly, completely intoxicating.
He comes with a warning label
that I never bother to read.
He sits chilled and breathing and encased in a shapely package
that gleams and glistens as beads of moisture form upon it.
His scent and taste are heady and evoke danger and thrills and secrets and late-nights and things we shouldn't do but would never take back.
I greedily swallow him down.
I want to take in every last drop of him, know every note of his flavor, have him deep inside me as I become an expert in the ways in which he wields his weapons.
He never fails to seduce me, when he chooses to do so.
All it takes is a waft of his oaky aroma in my direction, a gleam from a bead of moisture on his wrapping, and I lose myself to him.
It's a fight I'll never win.
He'll always get his way with me.
I'm powerless against this vice
and though I know I shouldn't drink so greedily from his cup,
I can't help but gulp ravenously.
copyright 2009 Katherine Andrews
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment