A Leaf in Her Cup

A Leaf in Her Cup
By David J. Daniels

When your mother thought she was the dog,
you were the government. And when the dog
started in through the telephone, she became
its listening. You were the thing with the secret
weapon, she the cornered thing. Then you
were the Virgin Islands again and she was Mexico.
You the colonizing space, the space that space
took over through the hospital safety glass. Then you
were the dog and she the phone, the phone
you’d given her, and then she thought that she
was the sinner and you the end in sight. Why,
she asked, should ridiculous grief be the thing
the leaf plunks down in my cup, why
should the leaf chewed down one side like a scrap
of haute couture, a remnant tossed to the dresser’s
floor, conjure this in me? And the dog did nothing
but stare back, being what had locked her there.




(Thanks, N.).