My brief love for you held these things:
    transparent hope of women, restless
    copper-tasting kisses.
    I wonder if you'd ever had these things,
    held a fragile teacup in your palm,
    breathed gently into steam
    felt a wave of sex-driven grace wash over you;
    flown apart completely and reassembled
    in a moment of not moving.
    Took a sip, scorched your tongue
    felt the grains of sugar catch in the back of your throat
    at the end of the swallow;
    the finish is green, surely leafy.
    As unsettling and common
    as a tripping on a tree root,
    breaking a wine glass while washing,
    blood on the stem
    that sense that the shards will never be
    cleanly swept up,
    the sense that the blood will stain your shirt,
    that nothing will ever give you peace again
    in this strong sunlight.

Copyright © Christine Ferran, 2000.  All Rights Reserved.