The Mug (Revision)

After some very helpful peer-reviewing from my friends Chris and Cameron, I made some changes to my poem. I think it has a better flow to it, the imagery is a bit more clear, and the style is more contemporary. I removed and rearranged some lines, and it feels a bit more balanced structurally, now.



The Mug
by Ben Scheele

I stretch and reach for a cup with which to ferry
water to my parched mouth in the morning, though not early.
I settle upon the ceramic mug I bought on that holiday,
when I found a student selling his wares at the university
while strolling along with my dear Maggie, carefree, or were we?

I touch it gingerly through its handle curving elegantly,
and let it fall into my palm, where I hold it firmly.
I realize that I am always careful with this piece,
shaped with skilled hands, spun on a flywheel,
glazed and baked at furious heat, unique.

I grasp and flip open the valve,
and the reverse osmosed water slowly pours.
The mug catches the trickle,
like lakes collecting the late fall rain showers.

I cease the flow and lift the mug to my lips,
when I notice a thin black strand of hair,
as if from her head,
draped along the vessel's interior.
I grimace, pinch, sweep it away, and take a drink.

The taste is faintly bitter, as if tainted by my harsh memories.
I set down the empty ware, and the hair is still there
on its wall from front to back, not a hair but a hairline crack.
All I can do is let out a sigh and set it aside,
as I don't yet know how to say goodbye.