From a set of what used to be
Some of grandmother’s good china,
Handed down some decades ago,
Already partial, to furnish
Your first on-your-own apartment,
Having survived dozens of moves
Around the continent and years
Of storage in flimsy cardboard,
Unlike most of the long lost set,
The teacup, now one of a kind,
Fits your hand as you put it up
On a shelf of miscellanies.
Somewhere on the path to dying,
Moving on, you think of long life,
Your grandmother nearing ninety,
Widowed, felled by a sudden stroke,
Your last visit, still years to go,
A shadow with a gaping mouth
Silent in a hospital bed.
All those other dishes that broke,
And here’s this teacup, on its own.
Monday, August 21, 2023
The Teacup
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