A Silver Cup

I found it in the china closet, tarnished
graceful still — my baby cup: a wreath

of rosebuds on the pedestal
a tiny Greek meander circling the lip,
the handle’s “S,” a flourish for the fingers.
On the pregnant belly — in the flowing
cursive we were taught at school —

my name, a word I’ll take on faith.
Gifted at my birth in warrant
of my worth, it hints of wealth
behind me (We are people
who count) and faith in wealth

to come, each life, of precious
mettle to be filled with every joy
a life can hold. Ah, but tarnished,
tarnished. I have not kept it
bright and clean. A little cloth and polish —

See? It shines . . . a bell. Struck,
it utters a sound clear as morning.

Jean Nordhaus’s eight volumes of poetry include Memos from the Broken World, Innocence, and, most recently, The Music of Being. She has served as poetry coordinator at the Folger Shakespeare Library, as the president of Washington Writers’ Publishing House, and as review editor of Poet Lore. She lives in Washington, DC.