Seree Cohen Zohar
Moscato

There
is
no thing
more certain than
'if'
, he says, central to
life
, he says; and when I'm with you,
it feels as if
, and says not a thing more. Moscato, she thinks,
puddle in reverse, that raindrops plink out of.
Seen through the empty glass,
his lips fishbowl,
mounds russet
as
clay,

from
which
words burst –
the first erupts
into myself; the second, I'm.
Through the glass bottom she sees his tongue

pop out, stoppering the next before it crests.
Moscato, she realizes. Her disabused
finger au naturel,
she readies
for
home.