a journal of fantastical poetry


by Sandy Coomer

You pause from shopping for Persian rugs online to pour a glass of Bordeaux. The kind of wine a sommelier would swirl while he talks tannins, but you, who know little of blackcurrant noses and chalky edges, study the deep red gyration and imagine hula hoops and spirographs. You don't grin like you might have once. You are serious in your shopping. How to tell hand-made from machine-made. What the designs mean, delving deep into the symbolic, the sacred. The immortal peacock. The fertile pomegranate.

On this website alone, there are two hundred and seventy-two rugs with red as one of the colors. Red for courage. You learn that colors vary according to computer screens. It's hard to tell if reds lean orange or pink, if muted means dull, or vibrant, garish. It will matter when you lay it on your floor. It must be elegant with presence. It must be aged, well-balanced, dense with lovely structure. You shake your head. Swirl the wine. It coats the glass with vivid, dark cherries.

At the clinic, the specialist said it was still too soon to give up. The ripe body surprises. And there are always options. Agencies and test tubes. Green and brown and gold. Double knots and Ankara silk blended with wool. Beautifully sweet and dark. You say the word, let your tongue wander along the sacred edges. Motherhood. Mother. The wine breathes on your lips. Red. Redder. The kind of wine a sommelier would swirl and talk mouth-feel, aftertaste. Symbolic. Intertwined diamond of male, female. It will matter when you lie on the floor. The crushing scent of fruit and soil.

December 29th, 2015

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