Untitled

a small glass
apothecary bottle
narrow-necked
recovered, possibly, from the
backyard strata

filled with red potion
of unknown origin
something organic, ripe
squeezed in our fists
or the liquid remains
of where your brush rested
after you painted stroke and stroke
of fire, or bridge, or breath

spilling like our
clear-eyed love
spilling on the linen cloth
that says
just so, just this
and absorbs

indelible stain
part of the fabric.