The Aroma of Her Wine. by Amit Parmessur

Sobriety, that’s what it is, this aroma.

I always think about her wine; why must

we not yield to the aroma of a crisp elixir?

I can suffer this a whole day, inhaling

forbidden poesy back into me,

blowing my fits of melancholy away.

My eyes often smell of it

and I feel tears of wine stealing down

my throat sometimes.

Just like fragrance flourishes from odorless buds,

she has become pretty from plain, with

an aroma bettering the curves

in any flower-crazy lady’s garden.

Quench me, free me, that’s what it does,

this aroma; it pops and clinks and whispers

about a mad future I’ve always thought about.

I hate what leaks out of her garden hose,

though.

Sometimes when I taste

her aroma from her unopened bottle, I

wish I could find her and make more mistakes.

Its fat foudres seem poised

to outlast my last sip, but I’m ready.

Sobriety, that’s what it is, this aroma.

One day, when it is loudest and sweetest,

and threatening to send me into her glass,

I’ll think the acetic blood

from my past has run away.

Free me, that’s what it does, her aroma!

I hate what leaks out of her

garden hose and violent mouth, though.

Amit Parmessur is a poet and teacher. He has been published in several magazines, print and online. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web nominee, he lives in Mauritius. As long as he gets published, he knows he is on the right track. In 2003, he won one of Scoop The Loot’s writing competitions by The Short Humour Site. Nowadays, he edits The Pangolin Review.