Michael's Wine

    Winter again and we want

    the same nocturnal rocking，

    watching cedar spit

    and sketch its leafy flames，

    our rooms steamy with garlic

    and greasy harvest stew.

    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 prunes，

    last fruit of the orchard，

    sweetest after frost， frothy bushels

    steeping in flecked enamel pots.

    Michael， our neighbor，

    decants 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 savory

    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 herd of horses got loose

    New Year's Eve， skidded 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， tilts the bottle，

    pours a round， as if to toast.

    It was so cold， he says，

    that when it was over，

    he swirls the distilled cherries

    under a green lamp， there was less

    blood on the pavement than you see

    this moment in my glass.