What's Left

^{for Dick}

I love what’s left over—

sage leaves stripped,

stirred into the stew,

a green stem remaining,

holding only itself.

I undress the garlic cloves,

garlic warding off evil,

my grandmother said.

The papery skins lift

in a gust of wind through the window.

A half-inch of wine turns

my glass by the sink

into a red prism.

Five of the set of twelve glasses

we bought at Ikea remain.

Next morning, I grind dark beans

into a wake-up call. The cup

you used to drink from

sits in the corner

of the cupboard.