Smooth-sharp acrylics click ones and threes
against a sweaty crystal lowball, empty.
A good sign: I am a real peach,
a drupe,
a stone fruit.
In this place everyone knows
or has dated everyone, so I know
her reputation:
Thirsty, self-incompatible, but among the best.
Hand to God, from her lips…
Mostly sweet, but bitterness is easy to cultivate.
Her name is old, latinate.
I practice letting the letters ripple and roll off my tongue
as if we have met before—
Unlikely story: this varietal is rarely found
in the wild.
Serial. Domestic as milk.
(See the shaky wings framing those
almond eyes.)
The amygdala does not process the direction of a gaze
toward a person.
I approach, two drinks in hand:
The bitterness of life,
the sweetness of love.
Almandine, I ask, butchering it,
Is that French?