The Wayward Cup


The Wayward Cup

It seems like I used to
dream only of colors, the deepest yearnings and
burning confusions; deep in the gut where a swollen
laugh emerges
missing the point and the window
hitting instead
the wall and the paint

I might have only
imagined it but, I think that my ovaries
cried even before puberty (the
image of something enveloping my sight
was too much to bear)

Who knows if I even dwell on this desolate
coffee table or
whether I am just another stain from a wayward cup?

Gwen Freudenheim, Contributor 

All images obtained through Google Images.

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