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Cup of Sorrow
by Lucille Lang Day
He hands me the cup of his sorrow.
I empty it on the floor,
then fill it with wine,
sauvignon blanc, golden and clear.
We sip it together,
then collapse on my bed, laughing
and listening to Simon and Garfunkel
sing "Scarborough Fair."
Before he leaves, I shatter
the cup with my foot like the groom
at a Jewish wedding.
Hurrah for beginnings!
But he returns the following day
with another cup filled
to the brim, overflowing
with sorrow. I don't let him in.
Forty-six years later we meet
on the street by chance.
He says he has terminal cancer
and hands me his number.
I bring him soup and sit by his bed.
We discuss folk songs and sorrows,
the people we married,
and what might have been.