A Bottle of Vin de Bugeaud

She left behind
a relic of femininity
amongst the dilapidated
stones of reconfigured walls
at the old plantation.

The sun exposed
metallic pinks and purples
of a solarized magnesium
bottle bought in town
on the eve that waxing crescent
moon whispered:

her fertile, empty womb
was going to weep
and the Parisian tonic of
Spanish wine
sprinkled with cacao
could sooth her Afro-Bahamian
menstrual cramps.

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