• Allison


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.