Sparkling to the Last Drop
Uncorked prosecco on the table
bottles still life. Minute bubbles,
like memory, disappear
through the vertical tunnel.
I have spent the day brushing
my daughter to life on canvas.
Another vision salvaged.
Oil paint reminds me of family,
leaves indentations that mark
the road back home where
she prepares supper and waits.
The flute I find in my hand
feels like anchor splashing
into sea. My daughter smiles.
Suddenly pétillant with youth,
I ask about her day.
The drumroll of unfamiliar names
from her lips squeezes my throat.
I take a sip, breathe away confusion,
halt the claustrophobic elevator
that descends with forgetting.
Strangers come to life slowly:
the aureate effervescence down my throat
like rosary beads linked to prayers,
the prayers leading back to revelation.
