Libation (new, sort of) by Sue Chenette

This is a new rewords, but was written as a "wreading" (http://writing.upenn.edu/bernstein/wreadiing-experiments.html) of Margaret Christakos' poem "Photo" (from Sooner. Toronto: Coach House, 2005) which is posted under comments.

Jug of sighed. Her. On apple pored and poured
from fallen wanting, of fixed light, taken
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by moon-shine, which tolling rang down
the hours to darn! again – awful rumpus.
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What’s tendered, sun-scorched (kissed) we cure, un-
willing shattered glass, against Eve’s protocols
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circumambulations, stilled fermentations. Swept.
(I’m cold, you?) I’m cold, you. Flashes in the pan
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throw mazed alarms motionless as chagrin
parlayed into nosir. A dozen ways I can’t
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seed you. It ripens and falls of its own weight.
For hollandaise I will muster technique.
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Premise: silken sauce, golden. Crisp asparagus
then libation. My garden (silver bells,
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cockle shells). Season slipping into drought’s
parched habit (folding and folding, a ladder
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not quite reaching the green-leafy branch,
broken rung, ravenous ghosts of repletion).
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