The first 'cup' poem is Catholic.
The Cup (2)
The sweat cup of the collarbone
Slackened jut of the shoulder from the torso
And the splayed feet, rough soled and brown.
The mouth is just another kind of cup.
We pour it full of noise
And drink it empty again.
Yes, these are events that would disgust
A lesser man than you, that would drive
A saner god to murderous injustice
But you were born, not made, and so
You must remember what it was like
To be only the appendage to someone else’s life.
It was dark, and then light – unless
It was light, and then dark – I don’t know.
I don’t remember. Not even how to start.
Yes, you said, yes the skin is just the start
Of the sac that compresses the body to being
Merely tangible by any probing gesture
Of the senses. When we cut our hands off
To spite our arms. When we cut our arms off
To spite our embraces.
Yes, he said, what if the skin
Is just another kind of wrapper
Keeping out the light?
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