Slicing Vanilla Beans

Returning from the city,
you held brown wrapper
around a lone vanilla bean,
an expensive buy you said,
erasing the smile from my face,
as you placed it in my hand,
lamenting once more
the price you had to pay,
sky-high-rocket gouging,
even though I ask
from time to time
for so little to get by.


I held a knife
behind your back,
before slicing the bean,
top to very bottom,
scraping the spine,
releasing tiny beads
of vanilla magic,
then sliding same
into a jug of moonshine,
corking it tight for a time,
in order to brew
something for keeps.