A Singer's Wine

January 9, 2018

Under the soft thrumming of the AC and the timeless buzz of the freezer,

my mother tells me: “Opera is wine: an addiction.”


The burgundy liquid swishes in glasses and coats stages with an eternal, velvety red.

Buttery, smooth, and earthy, it rises and falls as melodies swell in the playhouse.

It coats the glass vessel with ephemeral yet lingering winks of opulence.

Flamboyant, charcoal, and crispy, it eddies in annular mauve contours.


The more you indulge,

The more you covet.


The smell of aged amethysts hangs in the air and prompts an itch for soulfulness.

Unoaked, toasty, and fruity, it swings from staves of chords.

It swishes around the curtained stage with power yet unwavering clarity.

Simple, sweet, and soft, it envelopes the gathering with a blanket of sound.


The more you indulge,

The more you agree.


The imperfect purple, red, and white jewels are polished and crushed into a concoction of euphony.

Gentle, romantic, and mellow, it leaps from interval to interval and from vine to vine.

It hangs on the beams above with a teasing yet comforting lilt.

Warm, round, and melodious, it brushes the palate with aromatic perfumes.


The more you indulge,

The more you crave.


The fermentation of voices floats on a breeze and reminds me of my love.

Bright, full, and brave, ballads dance on the stage.

It intertwines with my voice and prompts me to recall my passion.

Strong, proud, and mine, the opera goes on.


The more you tune in,

The more you fall in.

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