Fidelity Of A Grape Poem by Ryan Glover

Squeezed IN to a mason jar of jelly until the grapes
sour, fermented INto an INtoxicant that was the
cause originally. Pressed and filled to full until
the top won’t screw, won’t screw on, won’t screw again.
Won’t screw up or down or sideways or catty corner or
diagonal, just a sticky mess on the fingers and clothes
and floor and counter top. Smeared royal purple, and it
expects obedience, subjection, when it was always
subjective. A subject contrary to animal INstincts,
against the fluid of life, this sticky mess.

Held between loneliness and decadence by
Law or the Divine, and it constricts until our
faces turn violet like we ate a strange piece
of gum. Yet, it is a fault is it not? Everything
IN moderation, no? Don’t tell us no. No,
we cannot put Humpty-Dumpty back together.
It may be irreparable, but never unforgivable.
Salt will help remove a jelly stain, it also controls
INfection on an open wound, after the sting wears
Off.

Forbidden fruit, that tannic quince lingers IN
the back of our throats. We learned right from
wrong, did we not? Good from evil? Are we now
not charged to Father and Mother the earth, and toil
to repair, to repay the ground? Where is the recourse
for the serpent IN this? Is her forked tongue not to blame?
Skillful IN flattery, our weakness, brought us to our knees with
sorrow to sing the blues. Bruised, black and blue and purple we’re
smushed under your feet, like a tyrannical garagiste.

Left alone IN the dark, IN a round wooden coffin, until
we’ve served our time, then we can breathe. And be fresh like
a white, and be round like a pink, and be big like a red.
It seemed so long since we were on the
vine and IN the sun. Would you care for cheese with
your wine? And we dangled to the mouths IN Greece,
atop Olympia, to the mouths IN London, to ladies
atop thrones. Dangled to the fox’s mouth,
but we were sour anyway! Our souls have grown heavy,
heavy for the vintage, pick us, please.

2008