Feet hanging from the deck
of the bow, sitting shoulder
to shoulder and thigh
to thigh. I can’t help but wonder
in what ways the salt air
is dancing off of the sound
and over our taste buds,
changing the way we read
the Prosecco between us.
I almost didn’t bring this bottle.
The thought of opening the cage—
six half-turns forward,
wrapping my palm around the
wire frame, twisting the bottle,
by the base, off of the cork—
it all seemed like too much.
There are too many ways
to mess it up, and I know that
I don’t have a grip on anything
when I am around you, but
I no longer believe that bottles
should be left
uncorked.
