Now is the point where our wine turns sweet

To spill the port down our throats, is like a

drano to the soul, it numbs and cuts and melts

away our trepidations. Smooth all the way down.

And it is not violent, it truly feels peaceful.

A zombie should be jealous. That is this point,

the culmination of us both. A familiar feeling,

a lesson we learned young, this accomplishment,

an adaptation, a symbol of our wills–a mutually

held, unspoken but true happening, acknowledged

but by fast nods, it’s over and done. It has chased

me from the kitchen. Buried over by two high chins,

a suspicious brow, an unzipped mouth. But this is

nothing more and, possibly less. Gone, for now.