She brings me
mandarin liqueur,
the fruit grown
in her own garden.
I pour it into
a crystal sherry glass.
(All my liqueur glasses
are broken or lost – except
the one I keep as a chalice
in my travelling altar:
a sandalwood box with also
a tiny dagger, incense,
a round white stone,
a small quartz point,
a woven cloth
to set them out on…)
The texture is lush, the taste
bursts on the roof of my mouth
both rich and delicate, spicy
and sweet. I breathe it in.
Sharing with dVerse Open Link Night #388