The Alembic

The Alembic

Soft humid hair trickles

from his torso to his belly button.

I moisten my lips.

When the fruit ripens,

he places it in containers

fashioned

in scented Spanish Oak

and moss. But to me Jerez

is not what gives him

the fragrance of Montilla.

It only forces me to savor

the memory of his abdomen.