I have her cup complete with chip, Crazed pattern, Nothing too ornate, just prissy pretty In its annoying details. I used to think how ugly A whole set would be And now I have it— This one runaway, surviving piece … Some mornings, I’ll sit within the grayness of a winter’s day And hold its warmth In my cupped hands, Drinking up memories Not all unpleasant. I compose A memorial to a Mother not yet dead … We never did get on But like old irritations, You miss the niggling pain When it’s not there. The cracked cup…
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