damp and adorned with cobwebs
from eighty years aging in the cellar,
his hands tickle my cheeks in greeting.
the shelf creaks as a slide him out.
i carry him outside onto my porch
where we sit in the glow of an oil
lantern. he was a gift, given long ago
when i was a metal rod that plunged
straight into things. he waited as i twisted
myself into a corkscrew, learned to sink
in slowly, spiral downward like water
into a drain. now, sufficiently molded,
i pierce his cork and burrow down,
winding myself through its fibers;
i remove it and place it on the table.
he need hardly be tipped to spill wine
into my glass. and it takes only a few
sips to realize that i am not yet of age.
