The Cup

She poured hot coffee over a dash of cream
And watched it surge together like
Storm waters and sand.
She stirred methodically, slowly,
And took a tiny, cautious sip
From the plain, white cup.

She selected a peach from the bin
And gently pressed her fingers
Into its flesh
To ensure that it had a bit of give,
Not too firm to bite, and
Not so soft to bruise.

She sliced the fruit off the stone
With a small paring knife,
And one by one
Placed the wedges in her mouth
As they fell,
Cold and sweet and rife with juice
That rushed into her body
And her blood.

She took another, deeper mouthful
Of coffee,
Yet it had cooled.
She heard a stirring upstairs, and
She sighed.
Spooning some fresh grounds,
She began to brew a new pot,
Drawing his cup from the shelf.

She sat down again at the empty table,
And cradled her cup, now cold, between her palms.

She drank in the last quiet moment of
The day to come.
There was very little coffee left in the jar.
There were no more peaches left in the bin.
There were only a few drops of cream left in the pitcher.

They would drink black coffee
Hot and dark and strong,
Scalding their lips and
Awakening them both from the
Long and roiling night.