by Tricia Knoll
I never had to hold up a cup
to get what leaks my way.
My mother’s French porcelain
remaining tea cup, the delicate handle?
That pewter beer mug
I got at a white elephant party?
Yes, I’m strong enough
to keep my arm up for a time
that old, teacher, call on me,
I have something to say,
while darkening winter
waters soak my toes
to numb. The arms
of an old woman
who only knows
that trickle down
means something cold,
frozen. Like needled icicles.
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I never had to hold up a cup
to get what leaks my way.
My mother’s French porcelain
remaining tea cup, the delicate handle?
That pewter beer mug
I got at a white elephant party?
Yes, I’m strong enough
to keep my arm up for a time
that old, teacher, call on me,
I have something to say,
while darkening winter
waters soak my toes
to numb. The arms
of an old woman
who only knows
that trickle down
means something cold,
frozen. Like needled icicles.
Tricia Knoll is an Oregon poet who usually itemizes her tax returns. She has lived long enough to read the debunking on trickle down theories of tax cuts. Her next book How I Learned to Be White comes out from Antrim House is early 2018.
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