Terroir

Next of Kin, I’m nervous
about being small
while you’ve become big
saving your seat, only tasting my drink
bent against outrunning future conversations
the last gin on the shelf, juniper dirt Terroir
tastes like 6-months ago in my mind
skipping a few beats to bring back the dead
you were glowing
and that beam of breaking light from your mouth
is a story, liberating other mouths
in deliverance from big quiet secrets
and reminders to leave offerings
of honey for gods in the yard
standing vigil until a limb falls at your feet