A teacup talks to the child whose nose just clears the table,
its pink and blue flowers eloquent in their simplicity,
the rim and handle gilt worn in the places his grandmother’s lips
and fingers have touched it; it speaks of the cold air that sings in its inside
where once there was warmth and sweetness that drew her mouth to kiss it
and he cries, but his mother tells him not to tell lies when he says
the teacup talks.