Maturing
I handshake branches:
in a wake of wings, wild
plums plunge to my feet. I pick
sweet fruit the pink-purple-blue
of a bruise, + t-shirt full,
I come home
to make myself wine
(+ remember you).
I leave the skins dirty
for their yeast, squeeze
them in both palms,
tempted to drink. To lick
my wounds, myself clean.
I pluck their pits
for they’re poisonous,
then add gallons
of well water. Melt an iceberg
of sugar. Let the juices
ferment for two, three
weeks. Maybe this will taste
good. Won’t be too acidic
or weak. But I won’t know
(hadn’t known) until
the end. I siphon
wine from the carboy
(like I did you, boy,
in your car, your
hand in my hair,
dried wildflowers
on your dashboard)
+ spit, catch the rest
in clear glass bottles.
(We make nothing
that lasts.)
Kieron Walquist is a queer, neurodivergent writer and MFA candidate at Washington University in St. Louis. His work appears / is forthcoming in Gulf Coast, Puerto del Sol, Swamp Ape Review, and others. He lives in Missouri as a hillbilly.
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