Tonight, after my daughter fell asleep,

I crept down the stairs to watch vampire movies;

I held my breath in terror of her waking hungry

and desperate and unwilling of sleep.

I watched. And after tiptoeing 

into the first rainy night of autumn

to retrieve old bills from the maildrop, 

I took a funnel, an empty pot, a pair

of old hose, and a bottle

of rotting fruit steeped in wine; 

dipping my fingers into the seething mess,

I strained the burgeoning liqueur,

praying that sleeping babies would yet sleep.

I made no noise, and I heard none.

The cauldron of fermenting juice bubbled,

and that quietly.

How amazing to me that now,

well into my third decade, 

I dip my fingers into wet, soaked panties,

wiggling the slime, inhaling the sweetness

of festering springs, of rot, and think mostly

of recipes, decantings, and the odious possibility

that I have a vinegar mother instead of brandywine.

That if a moan escapes me (and, God forbid, wakes

the baby) it's the result of a realization

that I added too much fennel.

How amazing that years ago,

dedicated in fire and sweat and pain

to a goddess of pleasure I barely knew, 

I would never have seen myself in a different kitchen,

tending a different fire, 

giving my talents to a religious fervor

quieter, but no less demanding or consuming

for all its absence of pain. Feeding a hunger 

I never could have seen.