I ordered a bottle of wine
because I love the idea
of letting alcohol make all
the important decisions.
By dining room, I mean a den
of iniquity and the double
entendre in being asked
if I would like anything
to eat. I am thinking
of a specific kind of tree
and the acres of orchards
nestled in the foothills
of the Cascade: imagine
a stream bank moonlighting
as a hotel bed, imagine
the two of us dying
of curiosity, imagine us
arm wrestling over who takes
a bite first. I am describing
the tree as slumped
because there is real danger
to knowledge. It wasn’t
a garden as much as
a speakeasy in the center of town
with waitresses dolled up
in Bavarian outfits, circling
the room with late-harvest
fruit: apples with pistachio-
almond butter and poached
fig. Your fingers were snow
melting in a bright room, the perfect
mud, my secret affection
for cliché rolling up its sleeves.
Nothing was out of reach. I clapped
my hands, the fields rose up.
Frank Matagrano
originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 9, copyright Frank Matagrano. Used with permission of the writer.
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