Approached by so many lips,
availability declared, arm akimbo,
hour by hour promiscuous,
receiving partakers indifferently.
And they at the touch, the wetness,
lick, sip, swallow their way to satisfaction.
Conveyer of collected rain, comfort soup,
abstemious green tea, seven dollar latte.
Stoneware stand-in for champagne crystal,
in serendipitous toast,
or disposable red clay empty of spicy chai
and tossed from Indian trains.
For months sequestered in dim cupboards,
pulled to light at a whim,
and joined to a tableside carousel
rhythm of lifting arms,
in syncopated motion and drained
as the conversational accompaniment subsides.
Mother’s rose bud porcelain shelved
edge to edge with designer cones
and supermarket cylinders
extruded by thousands from a China mould,
linage to mythical Xia,
shard of ancient Jericho,
Socrates drinking his verdict,
moist ring on a Pompeii counter,
‘remember me’ cup of
the freshly betrayed Christ.
© Steve Isham August 2006