Green Linden Press

Kissing the Cup                                                                                                   —Barbara Daniels


I name the cat Eurydice.
The spider in the corner—
call it Hunger. I link each

finger to a decade, place a ring
on the new year coming—index
year. That finger points

onward. I keep a man
upstairs in the bed. Or here
on the couch reading.

His hands have touched
every dish and pan
in the kitchen. To kiss

a cup is to kiss him. Omelets
he makes could be savored
in paradise. So far he’s

sleeping. Snow comes
with its typical speechlessness.
We’ll go to the doctor soon,

the one with the possible
miracle, sky blank
as new paper. I look up

what real means: guileless,
immovable, serious, true.
I won’t ask about Orpheus

walking the malls, strumming
his blue guitar, searching
the stores for love.