My mother infuses her emotions,
Muddling feelings like mint,
Mixing moods like potions.
She distills both spirits in a glass
Meant to calm her wild temper,
But it doesn’t last.
Cranberry drifts through her tenor.
Dissipating through her capillaries
Among our cabinets crowded with jars.
Hands stained red with berries.
What hides in her wine colored heart?
It reeks of regret in our kitchen.
Safely stored in the drawers,
We must keep what is hidden.
Her words spew countless scores
Of sour orange vodka words.
The house sweats alcohol.
Seeping through the walls,
Dripping down the bannisters,
Her passion covers the house.