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Poem

Karen McCarthy Woolf

TASTING NOTE FOR GRIEF #17

TASTING NOTE FOR GRIEF #17

TASTING NOTE FOR GRIEF #17

Long and complex on the palate
rage attacks the tastebuds,
a territorial robin whose wings
coruscate the epiglottis, insidious
as rust in a cut. Her jaw
has started to clamp. Remembering      
is a port wine stain.
Similes are useless
on this red staircase
that ascends:
an upside down madder root
feeling its way to the sky.
She has become a connoisseur
of its avoided flavours’ Titian hues.
The nose has notes of cherry soda,
ginger biscuit, sang de boeuf.
This is one for laying down:
it will keep for years under the earth.
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TASTING NOTE FOR GRIEF #17

Long and complex on the palate
rage attacks the tastebuds,
a territorial robin whose wings
coruscate the epiglottis, insidious
as rust in a cut. Her jaw
has started to clamp. Remembering      
is a port wine stain.
Similes are useless
on this red staircase
that ascends:
an upside down madder root
feeling its way to the sky.
She has become a connoisseur
of its avoided flavours’ Titian hues.
The nose has notes of cherry soda,
ginger biscuit, sang de boeuf.
This is one for laying down:
it will keep for years under the earth.

TASTING NOTE FOR GRIEF #17

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