In Quest of a Clean Cup (Poetry)

I found your old cup at the back of the cupboard —
uncracked, unchipped — as perfect as memory allows —
the dust on it a fine reminder
of how long you’ve been gone.

The washing-up’s been piling — hence the search
for clean china. —
Normally, I don’t reach in this far
to where it’s hard to see what’s what.

I cannot drink from this — it’s almost holy —
your lips the last to touch its pastel rim
and taste the warmth therein —
sweet, not bitter, then.

And so, I rinse a mug instead —
put yours away — careful — with a mind
not to disturb the order of the shelf
or drain hope from the day.