Victorian Teacup
Flow-blue they call it—
indigo glaze around the rim
dotted with gold stars
like a monarch’s robe
dipping into snow.
Or does the white
flow upwards, discrete
exuberance, a vapor
off the chill, rounded foot.
And the handle is a bone
in a tiny woman’s ear—
too small for a laborer’s
stout paw, too fine.
I pinch it with my thumb
and forefinger, pinky up
like a suspicious eyebrow.
I am beyond blame,
far from the heat and sweat
of the fields outside.
Until I notice the stain,
an oily crescent moon
where my lip
pressed eagerly to drink.