You rise in the back of my mind like bile,

like fire through sun-bitten ice, like vines

after winter through dead earth that twine

'round my mouth and sprout sour grapes

down my throat, through my veins

'till my stomach twists up and I choke.

If my frost-hardened fingers were stiff

and hadn't yet crumbled to ash,

I could drip purple blood into bottles

to stopper and hide until vinegar winter

when vines crackle crystal and die. I'd have wine

to douse the few embers that burn through my heart,

and after I drank, you'd escape through my lips

in a cloud of steam, harmless and pure.