we call the mug sybil.

a dish settles into the sink with a small bell sound, and i hear a love song of early coffee, a baby who could live on bananas, bicoastal friendship, posies scattered about rooms in glass milk bottles and cerulean blue jars...i see proof of him, of them, of this, of us.

they're only dishes drying on the rack, they're only vases airing in the sink, but i am devoted to them, to the quotidian nothings that add up to everything.