Morning Cup

Clear water in a glass pot
breaks to boil and
wags a little tail of ginger

poured over a grind
of beans, clove,
broken cinnamon,

changed and changed again,
the water pools
in the dark of the cup.

Mother in a voice not her own
says she doesn’t feel pain
at all only knows it’s there

in the air above the bed
like a steel blue cloud of batting
greedy to take her in.

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