Wine

Moving. Everyone hates it.
Cleaning the fridge, three a.m.,
all my life boxed,
I found a bottle of Moscato
from you wrapped in a plastic bag.
From before I'll never see you
again. My favorite wine.
This place, only last summer when I moved in,
impossible under the snow drifts now.
I pull the cork.
We drank half of it?
What giggling summer night was this,
after what touching sun-warm shoulders
and wading in what lukewarm river?
All cups packed away
so I bring the bottle to my lips.
Bitter and sweet,
enough for one taste and the heat
in my empty belly and then --
I pour it down the drain.
Throw the bottle in the trash.
I don't even welcome the numbness
trembling on my lip.