Drinking French Chardonnay

DRINKING FRENCH CHARDONNAY


1.

I sniff the waist
of these French grapes.

I taste their skin
of green quartz.

But never in my wildest dreams
would I expect
to find a French chardonnay
engaged in such lusty tango.

Now that you are no more, Maria,
I shall blend a handful of this
bandoneon voice
that still scorches our throats,
with a little bit of mine.

Horacio Ferrer enjoyed the slender
waist of lusty chardonnay
as much as I do,
but preferred, I believe,
the ultimate distraction
of a mature cabernet,
often in the nude,
loitering hallways,
watering red houseplants.

Which doesn’t atone
for the liberties
transgressed by this vivacious
French wine.

Horacio Ferrer and I share
a glass of this chardonnay.

Simple words merely disguise
the chardonnay’s bruised hips.

Still, there’s a courage, here,
you don’t often find
in white wine.


2.

La mariposa.

Yellow rings on black ashes.

Mariposa rocks a cradle
that resembles
a split-pea pod.

Mariposa
follows the bandoneon into alleys,
exchanges lipstick
with death.

Mariposa.

My solitude
wilts
before your impulsive nature.

Mariposa.

You deliver families missing a few teeth,
eyes reflecting crude oil.

You deliver dreams
in the form
of overpriced movie seats,
I know you!

You are the last creature
to invade
my solitary mansion.

Your sanctioned coins, with holes
in their heads,
stumbled over cliffs
like buffalo fleeing Blackfoot myths,
falling victim to shaman dementia.

Carl Jung was close
to Native Americans,
although their relationship
was never consummated.

A Navajo boy
spots a hunting party
far from its Chiricahua camp.
The boy’s elders quickly deconstruct
alliances with Mangas Coloradas.

Crops are planted.


3.

This pale French fruit splashes
golden hips
against her crystal waist.

At Chiparelli’s restaurant, nestled
between the glistening black alleys
of Little Italy,
Baltimore.


4.

Our bouvier, Chloe, follows
the bandoneon
through an unlocked gate.

Discovers frozen blue lamplight
is nothing more than
a simple illusion.

The same old illusion
so often endured
behind her split-rail universe.

The moon appears
to be missing
one eye
as she lunges
forward,
hair
of smoke.

The universe appears
to be missing
a purpose.


5.

Maria stands squarely in the way
of modern progress.

Rich men attempt to buy her off.

Poor men
pretend to be her confidant.

Older men
display erudition
as though it were their final trump.


6.

Our first love affairs always collapse
somewhere between the abyss of intellect
and emotion.

They must;
otherwise, they would exist
merely as giant otters
in a river too cold
for human habitation.

But first love defies prediction.

You can’t anticipate
its impact.

First love is perhaps the most
mythologized love of all time.

It commands its own space
in the love hall of fame.

It changes DNA forever.


©Alan Britt 2007


Posted over on Hecale