Gin Bottles

We know this secluded warm pool
and every time my plane lands in your town
we agree by looks to dip a little deeper.

I’ve been marking my mother’s gin bottles,
afraid to see the levels go down…and marking
my skin as the water of us climbs me…and you

and there is the breath-held thrill that fear might
come as a cold current. But not so far, and last
time you dipped me in the words I love you.

It wasn’t a splash, just some interplay of water
waves and sound waves and time spiraling
imperceptibly as we gave space and touch.

How do I mark this?

Fear asks the question. I know you meant it
as another holon holding me against my own
demon towel. How do I let you know that,

even so, I’ll take it?

Gin bottles. I drink too much fear. In a growing
moment, I believe I can breathe underwater.
And our warm pool is space, silently expanding
after the big bang that didn’t hurt a bit.

–Wren Tuatha

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