Inanna came to me
It was the tint of the tempranillo that I recalled from that night, the night Inanna came to me. I was at my weakest, drugged in my seasonal allergy fit, staring into the wine like it was alive. The bed could not hold me, could not fit the wild huntress I crammed under its lavender quilt.
And then I saw her. The image I had not expected, nor been surprised to find. Strong, muscular, fit to defend a civilization. But mysterious. Ethereal. Ephemeral. I could reach out to her only as she drifted away.
She left me there with my tempranillo, the light on and everything. Hints of brown and scarlet, the colors of her clay tablet images, twisted up into smoke. They swirled like chocolate, like deep, rich flavors that pleasure the tongue.
And it took me the moon’s full passage across the sky to realize that she had been weeping. Mourning.
It was Tammuz. The new moon had made its arc across the azure sky to signify a new month. Dumuzi had passed to the underworld; Inanna would wail along with us all month.
The wine would fall to the floor and stain the ecru carpet. I would leave it and stare.
The blood of Dumuzi. The walls of The Temple. A shattered wine glass. And still, the light was on.