The Last Time I Saw Donna

Diana’s edge of light was mournfully small

Above late evening’s horizon

As she and I watched the coffee drip slowly

Into the carafe until she could pour

The filtered burnt sienna fluid.

It struggled to the brim.

She fit a spoon into her hand

And stirred below the steam rising

Toward the kitchen lamp.

Motes of sugar and powdered cream

Strayed upon the saucer.

She brushed the sugar dust

And wistful flakes of whitener

On the saucer with her sleeve,

Some flecks took refuge in the weave.

The moon that graced her cup failed

To guide her lips to anything

But the darkness that she drank.

In my pale place I stared

At the swirls I stirred.

All the words that I had stored.

Did not spill beyond my drink

And I had to bite down on a sigh.

Her thoughts may have crept

Down to the table, but could not cross

The ceramic brink,

The valley of her empty cup.

Revised, May 2013