The Wine Bottle Holder
after reading Eavan Boland’s “The Wild Spray”
From Paris you brought back your first gift
for me, a stainless steel wine holder, arched
back in a single curve, seen from the side,
and, from the top, a shiny sharp-edged plane.
It was the most defined thing in my kitchen
where mismatched mugs squatted in the sink,
the gas cooker was bronzed with spits of sauce,
and ripe bananas hung over the trash.
I stashed it in some cupboard and forgot
those early days of careful give-and-take.
Now, taking out the holder from my mind,
and flashing it, this way, that, in the sun,
I see it keeps its clear and severe lines,
the boundaries of being, and within
the first material it is made of,
the graceful arch still of that of a bridge,
but, more, the months have worn its cutlass shine
to a glow, cutlery’s, and here it sits,
its empty mouth also a steady hand,
to hold the bottle of Bordeaux we choose.