Poetry Stories: The Novelist

Chapter 24. When you should walk away.

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This morning, in the sunset yellow dining room,
I held the Princeton to my lips, its handle soft 
between my thumb and tiny index finger, 
its gold rim imperceptible to taste, but circling 
nonetheless. 

Lazy, perhaps, or careless, I had seated the Princeton
in the Profile saucer (also white, also fine bone). Still.
When I held it close, and towards the light, my left hand
joining the embrace, I thought to ask you this:
Did you know, if you tilt the bone just right,
you can see the fingers silhouetted, on the other side.

—L.L. Barkat, from chapter 24 of The Novelist