Painted Cup

I gave my father a painted cup which he turned in his brittle hands. The glare of the lamp on its porcelain, dull shadow at the bottom—cup with painted sea reeds and a starry night, cup of breath, of air. Cup with a handle like a heron’s neck. He brushed his fingers over the curved rim. He touched its lip, the skirt at the base. Sometimes I am a scratch on such a cup. But leave it on the front porch on a windy day, the palms will pour their fronds into it. Put it in the freezer and glaze it with frost, bury it in the sand where the beach begins— For a sip of the water that could fill it, salt water warmed where the sea rifts part and glow, warmed where the blind fish spread their gills.