In the cellar,
green‑glass vessels lean
against one another,
their shoulders dust‑padded,
throats sealed tight.
Some wait decades,
stoppered against the tremor of hands
that might one day twist them open.
Others burst early,
foam rushing into the air
as if silence itself were unbearable.
Life, too, is a rack of bottles—
some forgotten in the corner,
labels blurred,
contents thickening into memory.
Others are restless,
pressing against their corks,
uncontainable,
a fizz that refuses to be archived.
And we—
we are the corkscrews,
spiralling into the grain of our days,
levering against the stubborn seal,
wondering whether release
is celebration,
or simply another form of spilling.
.