in the recycle bucket
a glass bottle, white
& bobbled, she

had gifted them from
her holiday. A good
gesture, all filled sangria

way back (a year ago
) now empty sideways
with the evening sips.

As I & they my parents
clear away the
reminders of she’s I love—

‘god knows what the
sangria’s like but I thought
the bottle was lovely’

of everything different
then, so unlonely, so
sangria stocked & holy

but my parents must
forget that too relationship
& ‘who was she’ eventually.