five dollar wine

I am domestic
I am five dollar wine
dusty, needed just for my alcohol
not so much my taste

Vineyards that freeze in winter
line the hay fields our Holsteins
used to graze in Northern New York.
My parents roll their eyes
at these weirdos from Connecticut
that bought our land
when the government was about
to take it away.

I drive by.
Slow.
I remember when my brother's trailer
sat in the middle of this meadow
not scraggly, half-dead grape vines
that I doubt can produce any more
than vinegar and salty tar

You breathe me in deep
Note the hints of pine and ash
gently, you examine me, jostle me
to watch me tremble
detecting the blackberry briars
the fresh sweet grass
dandelions, tiger lilies, april lilacs
With great nobility and respect
you ignore my plastic cork
that does not split under
the weight and force
you apply.

You point out my legs
the way I spread and grasp and
silk around the glass
the way I climb and crawl and agitate
on your bed, gently tumble
cotton, feather, satin, pillow

metaphors blur
I am poured, I am spilt
I am caressed, I am savoured
drunk, drunk, drank, drink

I am rolled around your tongue
dribbled down your chin
I am something, someone
to proceed toward with caution
and great enthusiasm