My Oma Says it is Sacrilege to Drink Wine Cold

by Miriam Moore-Keish

My Oma wears clothes that fall like
fitted sheets on a laundry line
and hang off her like waterfalls
like her voice falls in rivers

when she says "I'm a tenor"
but really she doesn't
have enough joy to beat
gravity and her voice digs
into earth

like my toes while I watch her rake
leaves in our American home.
The leaves don't fall in

Only Omas fall. My Oma's husband
fell out of love and they fell
together like origami, folded but
opening like petals to see
pollinated wounds and flesh

She drinks gluehwein heated on the
stove. I imagine it steamstains the air
bloody and I imagine what would
happen if Jesus could turn saltwater
to wine, how it would stain the
tablecloth when she cries while we
sing the blessing.

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