Rosemerry Wahtola Tromme


The wine in the glass

remembers the long days in darkness

how it couldnā€™t breathe,

how it lost its scent of grape

and became more grapefruit,

more green pepper, more grass.

How it lost its harsh taste,

lost its astringence, and became

rounder, more smooth, more

wine. I, too, am changing

in these long days.

I, too, am converting what Iā€™ve known

into what I will be.

I, too, am becoming something

I almost donā€™t recognizeā€”

heady with transformation,

yet tethered by memory

of what it was like

to feel trapped,

what it was like

to steep in that darkness,

to have to learn to trust

whatever came next.


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