Charred Oak Gospel

The bottle keeps its small weather behind the label,

a barometer of corn, char, and patience.

I pour a thumb, and the room leans a little,

warmed from the inside out.

Vanilla climbs the air, then smoke, then a hush

like fresh snow on split rails.

I hold the glass where lamplight makes a slow river,

and listen for creek stones turning.

My father liked his on cracked ice, the cubes sounding

like tools hunting a bolt.

He said it was a map to whatever hurt,

a way to walk home without asking directions.

Tonight I try to be kinder to the hours,

to the throat that carried too many names.

Grain fields unroll in the tongue, bronze after rain.

I taste walnuts, burnt sugar, leather,

the shop where belts hang like sleeping eels.

I set the glass down and let quiet do the mending.

We meet ourselves in whatever shines back,

not to be forgiven, but understood.

The word bitter softens when you wait.

A bright rind passes, citrus oils loosening

the corners of worry: orange.

Aging is a barrel nobody escapes.

Teeth keep their ledgers, and the calendar talks

like a stern dentist in a clean white room.

Still, there is sweetness caught in the black staves,

and something green as orchard wind hidden under the heat.

I carry that outside, where crickets stitch the ditch

with bright mistakes, and stars balance on wires.

The porch remembers the talk I never finished,

the apology that took its time.

In the dark, I practice leaving open spaces

between thoughts, like good cooperage,

so nothing has to fall apart to breathe.

The glass is warm.