by Marissa Bell Toffoli.
I ask the bottom of a cup questions,
trace futures in smudged lines of grit.
It’s a dirty mirror.
What rust, what lack of trust,
tell the fissures in the crust.
What a bust! This whole age-old
cry for an answer,
a quick fix-me-up.
Others kissed my mouth,
fed me words, heard my song.
Let remembrances alone.
What use the answer
for the wrong question. Cup, cup,
give it up—spill the beans. Spoil me
with epiphany. I say I don’t have any
regrets but there are people I didn’t love
right. Most would say goodbye.
Fight fades out. What’s ever fair?
Drought of my mug
keeps a womanly shape,
tributaries and trees, whispers,
weaknesses, confidence. A nesting
bird image hovers near the lip—
mama pushes fledgling over edge,
overcome facing what has passed.
Though it must be done,
pain winces in her eyes.
A rush as ground rises.