In order to view this poem with the line breaks the author intended, we suggest reading it on a computer screen or in the landscape orientation on your phone or tablet.

Ice in My Wine

On the sun-white terrace in Provence, I ordered
a bottle of rosé. Swirling pale pink, I thought,
delicately chilled for a summer thrill. How awkward
I felt when the wine arrived with cubes of ice.

The server, a preserved woman with pulled-in cheeks,
was apologetic but firm: “Le vin est trop fort.
Le climat est trop à blâmer.” Nobody thinks
that climate change arrives by the glass,

but I could taste it: overheated skins,
vines curling into shadows like vampires,
mad juices percolating with blends
of our profligate highway offenses.

My mother would have been scandalized.
I can see her place a palm over her goblet.
Her eyes turn arid and small, flattened
as her nostrils flare. Ice. A rancid thought.

But her spirit now can only sniff and be still.
We intestate ones must take our drinks deflated,
as I did that day . . . although we might recall
that even dreaming Homer drank his wine diluted.

—
Brian C. Billings is a professor of English and drama at Texas A&M University-Texarkana, where he also serves as editor-in-chief for Aquila Review. His poems have appeared in Abandoned Mine, Ancient Paths, Argestes, The Bluebird Word, Confrontation, Evening Street Review, and The Woven Tale Press.

Know anyone who might appreciate reading Brian’s poem?
Why not share the link to this page?

Have you read these poems:
Hearts Heavy and Light by Maya Muir
Against Isolation by John Milkereit

Table of Contents