Bees.
Flies.
Fuckin’ food chain…
Glorious food chain
Flicking off a fly and
Ting! The sound
of my fingernail
grazing the rim
of my almost-empty
glass of red wine
Green grass and orange-tipped yellow roses
now visible
through that cupped emptiness
Beauty and tragedy
together again for the very next time
See it, taste it
in two more long, slow sips
Lick your lips
Life is rich and full
Words exist
to describe it perfectly
(“If you speak French!”
Haha, funny,
Tu et amusante)
Bugs, like pin-pricks
in size but not in pain,
except as my mind makes them so
(Go! Away!)

No. Stay.
My last sip
Clock ticks, time flies, fly time is over
I rise to go
Time stands still
(As the memory will:
I was a grape,
must be Syrah, ah,
made into wine, flown in
by flies from France
that dance now
around my glass
and on my page.
I fling them away
with another ting
but they can’t stop
prancing!)

Screeeeeech! Nope. I am
in California
El Paso de Robles
and the flies are local
like the ruby Rhône varietals
once swirling in my now-empty glass
It is clear: a grape I have become
We are one
in DNA
The moment has arrived
to take my double-helixes
back home
to the piano,
and play

# # #

-Sharine. (May 2016)

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