Distance And do you think that love itself,
Living in such an ugly house,
Can prosper long? Edna St Vincent Millay The ring of red wine on the coaster dries, I
see my lips have left their mark on your glass. It happened when I tasted you in the Merlot. I
wanted a mouthful of your fruity tones, wanted your blood to break my bread. I
do the rituals: fret about saltiness in the stew then the blandness of it; flatter guests like the faithful wife. but the man with the ring on his finger does not look at me. He knows I am half of another whole. Across the table, you graze the lip-print. Your fingertips touch every grove circle the length of my smile, from the centre. I
despise the teapot that sits stout between us. You offer it to your woman friend who warms her palms on the arch of its back. She knows too. The moon dissolves light. The wine sours in my mouth so I find another room. Soon, the ring will call my name and I will answer just the same. Then you will kiss me by the door, leave me clutching my cheek and wanting more.
Again, I’m thinking of the day we met at the funeral, how he squeezed into the pew, how easy it was to dump death for wakening. There was something about his sucked-in cheeks, his knife-like beard, the way he strung sin around his neck like costly beads. He tore me a corner of the hymnbook. Abide with me, it said. He said he was the second plague that he could turn blood into water with his pole. I’ve come to free the captives from the fourth commandment, he said. To take women to the promised land, build them lambs from golden dust and flake them into salt. Days doze by and I don’t remember you. The only charm of wifehood lies in an old plastic box. a
cheap silver wedding band. A
dark line orbits it like a nameless, unworthy moon fingered far from the sun. I
put it away months ago when, one broken morning, I
woke to find I hadn’t dreamed of you in years. Nor cared. | 
