After the Procedure, We Count Bottles

Amber lined like a little choir,
their childproof caps clicking in our hands,
press and turn, press and turn.

We tip them to the light to see
what’s left, what’s promised, what can be spared.
We read the labels aloud,
each word held,
slowly, so nothing drops.

When a bottle is finished, we stand it aside.
We carry them down the back steps,
the bin cold even in August.
One by one we give them back to glass.
They answer with a bright, small ringing,
a sound the day can hold.

*

Brandon McNeice is a writer and educator based in Philadelphia. His writing has appeared in Plough, Front Porch Republic, The Philadelphia Citizen, Well-Schooled, and he has work forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly.