Peel

A poem

Photo by Dieter K on Unsplash

I’ve left unforgotten, rotten
membranes too
old to keep on surfaces
that reek of lime
veils.
There are stains of

dead pools at which fountain
heads leak. I’d try to
sip, down
fermentation like grandfathers do —
with grade-A age, the old

eating old, but
my tongue has yet
molted. I move for assembly, then.
Bottle corpses

with once yellow rind.
Banana
gin. Fine oak barrels stuffed

so full, Victorian ladies, their
one-line mouths, teem in reflections
on rivets drawn. I
understand it is ancients who
brewed this
drip. Spirits to ashen graves. I cap

enamel, bind suction
and stiffen the
dared air
from spoiling clean swig.

This is the magic of
good use.
This is let loose, I’m reminded.