Gran Reserva
I dozed in his cellar. He pulled me out
at a dinner once, and waited for her
while his taut fingers smudged my dusty neck.
He couldn’t bear to keep me after that.
You saved me from the local merchant’s shelf.
A whole decanterful of crispy air,
and I was born for this: a pair of mouths
to roll me across their tongues and share me.
Esperar (v)
It begins as Expect
before becoming Wait
and ending up as Hope.
Language stamps on
language
till nothing else
is left.
Shopping
Your last list has escaped from my pocket.
Neat, capitalised, divided up
by aisle in case I lost my way,
it reminds me of the one
I made last night: scruffy,
illegible, packed
with all the news
I’ll never
tell you
now.
Como una miel oscura
“…como una miel oscura,
te siento…”
…..— Antonio Gamoneda
I grew in your lips.
Their sudden absence
lies over my mouth,
shadowing my words
like a dark honey.
Matthew Stewart works in the Spanish wine trade and lives between Extremadura and West Sussex. He has published two pamphlets with HappenStance Press, both of which are now sold out, and his full collection is forthcoming in 2017 with Eyewear Publishing. He blogs at Rogue Strands.
Clear Poetry 