Envie

My favorite color is aubergine,
which is French for eggplant,
which is really just purple with delusions of grandeur.

A close second is merlot,
which is French for merlot,
which is really just wine with similar misconceptions.

These colors are rich,
probably more self-important than they ought to be,
which I find simultaneously familiar and attractive.
Short things that think themselves tall.

I thought, for most of my life, that what I wanted was aubergine and merlot.
Beautiful, round-bottomed vegetable
and full-bodied, fruit and pepper wine.
Soft, dark, quiet intensity.

A visit to Appalachia in the fall
and a week of missed phone calls
taught me that what my teeth crave is not softness,
but ferocity.

We work, dear friend, because you are loud, brash, hungry.
In all the ways I am a soft place to land,
you are a war cry and spit on the stoop.
You are not tame.

My darling, color of fire,
I found you among the autumn leaves,
vibrant and truculent in the Appalachian landscape.

I picked an orange and yellow bouquet,
set it on the table.
I ate eggplant, drank wine,
and missed you.