The glass was in the back of the cupboard

The glass was in the back of the cupboard

behind things nobody uses—

the fancy serving platter,

the gravy boat from a wedding

we're trying to forget.

Amber-colored, thick, clouded

like something's been living in it

for years. I don't know why

I kept it. I don't know

where it came from.

I hold it to the light.

It glows. That's all it does.

That's all it's ever been—

something that lets light through

and doesn't ask for anything.

I pour tea into it.

The tea turns gold.

The glass becomes a small lantern,

something that holds

what you pour into it

and makes it look like something

worth keeping.

For a moment I understand

why someone kept it.

Why I kept it.

Why we keep anything

that holds what we need it to hold,

that doesn't break,

that glows when the sun hits it right.

The tea gets cold.

I drink it anyway.