Fall Grapes
       

We didn't know the acrid scent of trodden grapes
stewing in their ferment. We mistook the flushed skins

for sweet juices, bit the thick-fleshed fruit,
learned these clusters were meant for the barrels,

ready to be mashed: pulp and sterns, seeds, stray leaves
churned to sift the liquid out of bitterness, what we did

in love without admitting the skin we licked
along each other's necks was mustos, the taste of

what our bodies could not change, what others turn into wine.

Copyright © 2009 Adrianne Kalfopoulou All rights reserved
from Cumulus
Finishing Line Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission