DRMW.1: When pouring a medium red I take the smallest sip, two eye drops worth or so, if necessary to measure. I let it slip passed the glass to touch my inner lips, kiss the subtle canals beneath my tongue, then the barrel of my mouth, finding the cavernous place of the previous tonsils before dismemberment. Let it linger, sit and savor and then swallow. Blending the residing saliva, making its way toward the biotic acid in my gut.  

DRMW.2: A buttery white, I gulp and open my cheeks to an all too generous amount to accept at once. A perfect volume to fill the void of my mouth, to let the tannins tangle in their playground hitting all corners, swishing about like a cleanse of consciousness before committing to letting the moment go. Pinocchio inside the whale, I don’t let it go yet. It must hit the roof once, then twice, propelled by the bitten raw cheeks adjacent to my grinding teeth, oxidizing the white and preparing it for the tube slide ahead. The larynx opens and I’m now in charge.  

DRMW.3: I’m aggravated. I’ve had a bad day. I wait and wait and wait for someone to gripe about it. He pours me a white. Usually a buttery Chardonnay. He doesn’t pour enough. Nothing is enough. I take a small sip. I mistakenly swallow way too soon without tasting it and await the blood alcohol brain depressive effect to cool my mood. Not quick enough. I wait a moment and focus on how much I love him. I take another sip and try to be in the moment; what was the taste?  I’m tired, but I don’t want to waste the glass, so I retire it to the refrigerator.  Open-faced.  

DRMW.4: It’s Sunday or something like it. It takes a long time to get out of bed. There’s likely football and we’ve both been drinking beer and I’m just watching bad TV alone while he sleeps. I’m writing or editing bad poetry, my stomach is bloated, and I have no taste for sleep. The wine is good enough. It’s usually not as good when it’s refridge-d wine from last night but it’s drinkable. It’s probably staining my teeth. Am I even tasting anymore?  

DRMW.5:  I awake to brush my tongue and teeth and decide: no more poetry under the influence.  

Jaimee Kosanke is a sports and documentary television producer and writer with essays in Newsday and the Village Sun. Kosanke writes hundreds of pieces that are thrown away as any writer does. She is happy to be included.