Morning Coffee

Reflected upon it, our story plays out

like a tale thrown across a curled page.

Its smooth curves of china transform our shapes

into wild-armed ravings of ghosts;

me, slippered and absurd with my hair left loose

and bright as a bowl of lemons,

and you, neck grizzled and eyes flat moons,

clamping your palms to your ears.

The caffeine fumes rise from our heads.

It sits there each morning, your white china cup,

as you throw back my words through curling smoke,

your pink thumbs tense little prawns.

Your cigarette glows in its saucer.

Another coffee if you would please,

darling.

You leave before taking a sip.

I watch after the swinging back door,

blood turning cold as your coffee.

I have taken your cup to the sink

where I wash its old throat like religion,

hook my finger through handled bone;

clean bubbles erupting like pearls.

Your fingerprints smear to nothing.

Gleaming and tiny, placed back on the wood,

I carry it close--

my polished whole heart on a saucer.

Twice now you have squeezed it tight

and thumped it down hard on the wood,

yet no chips cut through its bone-skin,

more stubborn, more real than a tooth.