Robert Hirschfield

---

Page 1 | 2

Tasting of Hurricane

At sixteen, he hammers
black stones
to fit over breasts,
to bless the new wine
tasting of hurricane.
Gender, to be honest,
was the smack down
of the sad plum
of one color
without its own bowl.
Well, he skinned it,
and it bled.
He too—
purple wolf blood.

I have had poetry published in Salamander, Descant, Tablet, Pamplemousse, Offcourse and other publications