Long and complex on the palate
rage attacks the tastebuds,
a territorial robin whose wings
coruscate the epiglottis, insidious
as rust in a cut. Her jaw
has started to clamp. Remembering
is a port wine stain.
Similes are useless
on this red staircase
that ascends:
an upside down madder root
feeling its way to the sky.
She has become a connoisseur
of its avoided flavours’ Titian hues.
The nose has notes of cherry soda,
ginger biscuit,
sang de boeuf.
This is one for laying down:
it will keep for years under the earth.
