Every lover leaves a glass half-full,

links lips and throat, every ex-
hale kisses the rim, I trace it like
initials in ancient oak — a babylon
sits in this maddening cup. I tip its end
to the ceiling, incisors ring a solid clink,
one-two echo of that first-sip cheers, out-
breath fogs the glass of morning-after, I slip
your last spit down and lick the rim — it sings
like cherubine hymn, the pitch of head docking
in damp pillow, of collapsing into each other
twice last night; the last lazy drip anoints
from tongue to sacrum, alchemical
romance of tap water to wine,
straw mattress to gold.

Alison Lubar teaches high school English by day and yoga by night. They are a queer, nonbinary mixed race femme whose life work (aside from wordsmithing) has evolved into bringing mindfulness practices, and sometimes even poetry, to young people. Their debut chapbook, Philosophers Know Nothing About Love (Thirty West, 2022), is out now; their second, sweet euphemism, is forthcoming with CLASH!, an imprint of Mouthfeel Press, in 2023. More: alisonlubar.com + Twitter @theoriginalison