Metaphorizing the merlots my mother drops off during quarantine

liquefied Swedish fish / olive oil / or men to bring to bed /

cotton candy grapes (fresh / from the yard) / the pepsis we used to drink with pizza / or the coke

zeros we drink now (silver cans / pretty like bike bells) /

or venom / or Chinese medicine / a panacea, maybe tea tree oil (a potable kind) / suitable for any

pandemic / still better than the tap when the pipes are flaked / with calcium and other white

things (like those planes

in that late August sky / I savored on the roof / with that boy you didn’t like / so much so you

begged / 911 to bring me home)

or two hands / or handles, attached to your bedroom nightstand / filled with rocks I collected at

camp / when I was homesick for the first and last / time

or the cloudy darkness in our dog’s eyes, remembering nothing

or pregnant bodies, swollen with black water / yours or mine I can’t be sure

or two old friends / in their childhood / homes (mother and I aren’t friends but we / can pretend)

one says / do you miss me? and the other drives by / with merlot and they sip the juice boxes on

the porch / as if they’ve never known better.