This poem was published today on Autumn Sky Poetry.
Many thanks to the editor, Christine Klocek-Lim.
There are indentations in the blue
porcelain like impressions on soft
wax where it was held softly, when
the tea was warm, for a while, and it
would not stop raining. We leave marks
on things that least expect it, on a passing
wing, on yellow afternoons, on the serrated
silhouette of leaves against a midnight
moon, on time standing on one leg, back
against the far wall, waiting. Truth is a
collage of careless fingerprints, the rain can
draw your picture from the way your hand
caressed the clouds, but skin is different,
naked skin can be cleansed, memory carries
the deliberate guilt of sieved pain. This tea is
cold, a level certainty in an imperfect cup, it
is only mid-June, the sun flattens like an
unleavened candle, and it will not stop raining.