The Cup

Holding the cup's handle
tightly, it's rim never touching
bottom but ours will.

That afternoon, a cup-full
of milk spilled on the porch,
like a linen sheet wrinkled

over a sleeping, invisible
body, the heat sucking
thick liquid into laced threads.

I thought of you, how
you cover me, an accident
drying on wood, the smell

of cream souring in sun
or on skin and imagine
the moment we landed

from cup to floor,
the handle broken,
the finger bleeding,

the loss of stability,
the beauty of freedom
when the cup fell.

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