Michaels Wine

　　by Sandra Alcosser

　　 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.