After the First Tap

After the First Tap

Licking the thin drip takes two

passes: one to get half

way, the other to achieve

the lip.  It’s like skin raised but not

puckered, how it draws up the scald

and cups it, no pour, no vent

and soon a bulge and that,

what’s not been against my tongue,

has widened to the size

of a maple bud still

building deep in its winter

hive.  It’s a vein of maple

sap now—how after

the shavings have gathered—

after the drill’s been set beside—

and with the soft mallet

the copper spile is tapped.  How it’s effort-

lessly set.  How, before the pail’s

hung, your one drip and then again

the one, drop down that foggy jaw,

and onto the March bark, the true thaw still

holding off.  But here: let me: Let me,

breath wet, catch you soon, prior

to night arriving, before the too cold pause,

and before tomorrow when you’ve been

gathered and poured and hung

empty again, and that first slender acceptance

of the drill, of the spigot,

that first drop of you

is blinked away, is hidden

and banged

against by that pail,

in a winter squall,

is unpraised

and utterly gone.