I brought home a little jug

and put it in the front room

on the end table I love

because it looks like real red

enamel in the sun and everyone

who visits says what a beautiful

little jug. I get the prettiest pink

roses for Jug who is so good

at standing by the sink, wide

open while I snip and fuss.

I never see there’s something

not quite right for Jug; the places

the bare slip shows through

the happy orange glaze. If they

topple I pick up all the petals

wash their curve and hollow

and fill Jug up again. The sun

streams in the windows

blunting all the edges

of the room. A new bouquet

rustles and Jug becomes

hysterical and I know.

This isn’t just a tantrum

Jug’s anguish is unbearable.

It feels an awful lot like drowning.