Those months away from you, I teach myself
to cook with wine, admiring the change
a Beaujolais enjoys inside the pot,
its sly divestment of alcohol, slowly
from the heat, like a girl unbuttoning her blouse.
I’m indiscriminate. All reds will do
because you’ve never had a taste for white,
the frigid chardonnay or pinot gris
so chilled it makes the crystal goblet sweat.