Her Glass
For E
I turn the cold tap first.
The glass on the nightstand, where she left it.
Sponge, cloth, the tea towel grey at the hem.
Steam climbs the window.
At the sink I run the water over the pink.
It thins. Lipstick and spit.
My fingers find the wet curve,
pulse jumping at the base of my thumb.
Her lower lip made this half-moon
the night she sat up naked in the dark to drink,
throat working, hair stuck to her neck,
then passed it to me without a word.
I put my mouth to the wet rim,
the water still warm from her lip,
the last of it gone between us,
and neither of us spoke.
I rinse until only clear water remains.
The chip in the rim I leave alone.
Hers or mine? Thin enough to snap.
I dry it on the cloth that holds her soap.
I fill it again at the cold tap and drink
from the exact place her mouth was,
cold knocking down my throat, my throat
working the way hers worked.
I set our glass back on the nightstand.
The chip takes the grey light.
The rim is clean.
No pink anywhere in the room.