Out of the Fire

Simple Cup

By Monika Rose

So much depends upon

A vessel once, its handle

A delicate, curved arc with

Someone fingering the glaze

As tea sloshes into a saucer

I wonder about fingers that

Reach into cold ash and find partial form

Body tunneled and caved in,

Missing a center, then remember

An action of lifting, then setting down

This relic of embodiment,

Still, the memories in the cabinet silent

And stories at the table resound

Around breakfast on coffee mornings

Steaming cocoa afternoons

Chamomile tea evenings

If you look closely at the melted glass

There on the handle, a ghost of fire appears

An O of surprise, caught in not a scream,

But a wry twist, a grimace

Its spirit snagged into revelation

Once I see the ghostly apparition

It will not tear away from imagination,

An echo of usefulness, haunting my very being

My hands surround the fragment, fingers tingle,

Ache to complete the broken circle