A beaming husband brought his wife some gin from outer-state,
His escapades were partially relayed in this glass bottle, adorned
With pretty flowers, carved in the sides,
Like—
“Snow angels”, she beamed back,
And he handed her a side of dried
Blood oranges in plastic wrap.
“It’s an aromatic experience”, he explained,
Feeling its warmth in his own mouth;
The spike of clove on his palate and
Star anise sliding down his throat.
Dried blood orange on the tip of his tongue –
A reminder that gin is sweet:
That even though it can feel hard and wrong,
It is meant to be enjoyed.
Through the bottle, the wife saw
Auburn roads stretching out along the horizon,
She saw a four-wheel drive,
And spiralling dust, racing to
Cling to the car boot.
And she felt a knowingness long lost,
One thinly spread across thirty odd years;
A sneaky sort of knowingness
That she hadn’t known in a while.
For distance had made the heart grow wiser.
He’d promised forever,
But a forever half-alive,
So the wife took a sip and smiled with grace,
To wash down the flatness of her tongue.
And later,
When the husband drained the dishwater, he found,
Among the discard in the sink,
A dried blood orange, washed up,
And all run out of its pink.