corkscrew, reprise

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.

In the corner,
labels blur into shadow,
contents thicken, slow as memory.

Elsewhere, bottles press
against their corks,
restless, uncontainable,
a fizz straining at the seal.

The spiral waits,
metal glint tucked in a drawer,
its teeth patient for the grain,
its lever poised for release.

When the cork yields,
the throat breathes open,
and the table waits,
shadow stretched

like a raised eyebrow.

.