I'm a cup.
I have no handle,
I have no spout.
I'm far from being
Called little, though
I am often filled with
Thoughts of
Little things
The space between lips,
The time between sips,
The way it feels to
Stand alone after years
Of association with
Kettle, with
Pot, with
Spoon--though
Somedays the fear of
Moon jumping, of moon
Falling
Keeps me grounded
To my shelf of waiting, of
Asking. Which serves a
Purpose all its own.
I'm still learning how to
Shout, how to
Move from objectg to
Subject, how to
Do more than spin
Around in circles for an
Assemblance of "entertainment."
How to wake up each morning
And move from the
Kitchen to the
Salon without shattering
To the floor.
I'm still learning how
To treat myself as more
Than an appetizer. As more
Than a dessert.
And sometimes i burn.
Sometimes, it's because
People try to drink me in
Before i'm ready to
Open up, and
Other times my body
Scalds your hands
To remind you that
I was never meant to
Be consumed by
Your mere wanting of me.
But
When i am tipped over,
When i find myself
Drunk
Up, it only reminds me to
Begin the process of
Re-learning what you can
Give and what
You must keep.
To remember that
My usefulness cones
In my openness,
In the small bur
Consistent promise of
Fullness. Of change.
To remind myself of
What i am capable of
Holding, even if somedays that
Holding is nothing more
Than my fragile china
Backbone.
