Spring 2009 [Issue No. 16]
Scent of Juniper
We came for coffee, but you ordered grapes,
and now you’re reading Keats. I’m watching light
collect above the window. I brought my Sade
but haven’t opened it. Across the room,
a woman of a certain age has asked
for gin. They have no liquor license here.
She settles for a latté. I see her hands
begin to shake, her skin-tight satin shirt
a bruise of lavender. I open Sade,
a “sampler” says the promo on the back.
Justine. I’ll sample that. You are lost
in Chapman’s Homer. I sigh and try your grapes,
but I taste juniper – sad alternate
to sweetness in this dis-collected light.
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