by Minnie Bruce Pratt

    Through binoculars the spiral nebula was

    a smudged white thumbprint on the night sky.

    Stories said it was a mark left by the hand

    of Night， that old she， easily weaving

    the universe out of milky strings of chaos.

    Beatrice found creation more difficult.

    Tonight what she had was greasy water

    whirling in the bottom of her sink， revolution，

    and one clean cup.

    She set the blue cup

    down on the table， spooned instant coffee， poured

    boiling water， a thread of sweetened milk. Before

    she went back to work， she drank the galaxy that spun

    small and cautious between her chapped cupped hands.