Upon a shelf of books she never reads
sits a bottle of gin she never drinks.
I could lie and say she didn’t know
why she brought it home from Wicklow,
but of course it was sweet hubris.
Arrogance in belief one could
bottle a moment, a sentiment—
preserve eternal sun, wind, water;
immortalize transient warmth of
his hand on her shoulder.
Late one night she broke the seal,
pulled a nail through the paper,
twisted the cork, and drew its scent
till she was one with bittersweet.
Reminder she no longer imbibes,
but once upon a time she did.
“I write so I can forget.” – the writer