My mother used to drink wine

She would mention it in off-hand comments

But it felt wrong to see her drinking

Wine was for fancy French restaurants 

Where the women wore formal pencil skirts

Or for church

Where everyone stood in line just to take a sip

She used to give me tastes

The wine a terrible mix of fermenting white grapes

I wanted to spit it out

It stung in my stomach 

As if I had eaten a lit match

The taste still stings 

I can fell it burning down inside me

The tartness on my tongue

Having wine as a child at dinner

Is so bittersweet

The wine hurt 

But I felt so warm

The room was warm, the smiles were warm

People were warm

Wine hurts to remember

The bittersweet and always gone past