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
missing the point and the window
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.