A Cup to Carry Memory

Afterwards, the sky was like a slab

of sunless milk, and as the women

wept, they sent the dead girl’s sister

to fetch the cup. Underneath the

cedars, daylight leaked into its rim.

I know that you remember. Think:

the digging of the grave, the scent

of dirt and absence, the dead girl

lying on her side, hands folded

by her cheek, pointing toward

the sea. The small enamel cup

her sister lifted to the mourners’

mouths, to catch their anecdotes:

the thin nectar of a life, poured

from the stream of memory. Think:

when the cup was at your mouth,

what spilled from you and into it,

what of you will the dead girl drink

when she wakes in the otherworld

thirsty for her name?

---

Gwendolyn M. Hicks writes emails by day and fiction about feelings by night. They have attended the Clarion Workshop and the Lambda Literary Retreat for Emerging LGBTQ Voices. Currently, they are earning their M.F.A. in Fiction at San Francisco State University, where they are also Co-Lead Fiction Editor of Fourteen Hills. Their work has been nominated for a Rhysling and has appeared in Heartlines Spec, Small Wonders, and Trollbreath, and is forthcoming in Kaleidotrope and Uncanny. You can keep up with them at prioryruins.carrd.co.