Draining the Cup *

    by Karen Kelsay

After she agonized about the equity

disappearing from her home, and walking away

from the city she grew up in; after she wept

at the thought of leaving white plantation shutters

that slit the morning into little ribbons

of warmth, and the fireplace mantle she had constructed

to look like a picture she found in a magazine—

after she anguished over living in a small apartment

with no garden; after she announced she was taking her piano

with her, no matter what; after she talked to lawyers

and accountants who said there was no logic

in staying—

after she moved into a pint-sized rental

by the beach, and stopped the three hour commute

each day; after she realized a dishwasher for two people

wasted more time than it was worth; after she discovered

her cats got along better in a tiny area; after she could

sleep in, and have an extra cup of tea

before eight o'clock—

after she had no flowers to clip or sidewalks

to sweep; after she spent an hour on the sand and studied

a strip of scarlet cloud that stretched

from Palos Verdes to Santa Monica; after porpoise

appeared and the sun's back-glow turned the bay

into a goblet of rose-colored waves; after she bought

a hot chocolate on the pier and proclaimed it

the best dessert in the world—

She realized how delicious it could be

when the cup is drained.

© 2011  Karen Kelsay

* previously published in Boston Literary Magazine

Karen Kelsay is the editor of Aldrich Press. In 2012 she was awarded the Fluvanna Prize by The Lyric, and has been nominated five times for the Pushcart Prize. Some of her poems can be found at The Hypertexts, The Raintown Review, Mezzo Cammin, The Pennsylvania Review, Grey Sparrow, and Pirene's Fountain.