Wine Country

Issue 12 | Summer 2024 |

 

 

I have flown here
for the sweet of summer
air as lush as sunlicked fruit,
vine shadow snakes in loam.

These are the songs the vineyards sing—
Malbec, Marsanne, Black Muscat;
the slow swish of steps through the fields
Syrah, Syrah.

We are the currency of oceans
carried by currents lashing Greece
and Portugal to this sunwashed Pacific coast.
The migrant women and I
we will not age well—
Corinth to currants, calyx peeled back
none of us native.