The Blue Cup
Through binoculars the spiral nebula was a smudged white thumbprint on the night sky. Stories said it was a mark left by the hand of Night, that old she, easily weaving the universe out of milky strings of chaos. Beatrice found creation more difficult. Tonight what she had was greasy water whirling in the bottom of her sink, revolution, and one clean cup. She set the blue cup down on the table, spooned instant coffee, poured boiling water, a thread of sweetened milk. Before she went back to work, she drank the galaxy that spun small and cautious between her chapped cupped hands.
From Walking Back Up Depot Street, copyright © 1999 by Minnie Bruce Pratt. Reprinted by permission of the author. All rights reserved.