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The Vertebrae Of Viticulture
A poem by
Amy Holman, Featured Poet

You can taste the lavender
blooming from seed,
              the tree ripened bergamot more than its root,
the tribal lentil. Grape ferments these into
accents. If given half a chance, lavender would drag a red grape
                           onto your tongue like a third hand anecdote.
Wine is a conqueror’s language, a dominant drink
                listening to its neighbors and pocketing whispers, surely
to misinterpret. But listen, we tasted the fossils of the yielded, too,
their songs boomed through to bones, stone, soil, and palate.

That vineyard in central Italy
where archaeologists
                 unearthed a Pliocene whale skeleton for
examination at a university warehouse
brings visions of swimmers in the ancient Tuscan seas. One
                           ancient cetacean is the same length as one
modern, or 33 feet; a herd amass a vineyard. Oh,
                enthusiasts take note: the body is gone from the body, the tooth
from the terroir, the Super from the Tuscan. What will the new bottles say
when they open up? How will they breathe without those ribs?

If you are interested of reading Amy Holman's other poems, please order Potomac Review issue #46 now.