Upon a shelf of books she never reads
sits a bottle of gin she never drinks.
I could lie and tell you she didn’t know
why she brought it home from Wicklow,
but of course it was for sweet hubris.
Arrogance in the belief that one could
ever bottle a moment, a sentiment—
preserve eternal sun, wind, water;
immortalise transient warmth of
his hand on her shoulder.
Late one night she broke the seal,
drew a sharp nail through the paper,
twisted the cork, and nosed its mouth
till she was one with bittersweet.
A reminder she no longer drinks,
but once upon a time she did.