Angela Cummings

Fly in the Wine

He doesn’t believe me
but a fly in the wine changes it:
the smell, the taste – of course, the allure.
Air-lifting it out doesn’t help either.
He doesn’t believe me, but I don’t care.
I drain and refill anyway, which makes him shake his head;
makes him question my dedication to sustainability;
makes him panic. At worst – blame.
This makes me feel resilient – this fresh pour;
makes me feel sweet and unbent, translucent and lucid;
makes me think that a mile away, a drunk fly,
and a sad sigh are maybe all the same.