Winter 1995 • Vol. XVII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1995 |

Man Drinking a Cup of Coffee

The spirit that floated in the dark waters of chaos was female. Sometimes when the moon is simply too full, the ground dissolves and his house, so arch in its steel boots, fills with the flurry of lake. Murmuring beneath his sand-bagged basement, it boils into the black drainage pipe. He shuffles dry to the kitchen,gripping his empty cup—my porcelain quarry, he muses, as he lifts the pitcher high and the coffee pulls brown legs together and dives suddenly in: Venus. Virginia. Ophelia. Outside, the rain and mourning doves like purses of wet sand. Imagine if he lived in a puddle. Clouds would be huge, murky slippers. A round black window in the sky and the women peering in. The chandelier sways like a giant udder but, remember, he refused his mother's breast. This will make him a saint of course, a respected leader. He bolts his coffee and Ophelia surges down his throat, her long dark dress spreading into all his secret places.

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By Sarah Gorham

The spirit that floated in the dark waters of chaos was female. Sometimes when the moon is simply too full, the ground dissolves and his house, so arch in its […]

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