True North by F.J. Bergmann

The cup rides in a basket, adrift on the gleaming table. The basket is boat-shaped, with no handle, and no oars by means of which the cup could row to a safe haven, although the basket is safety of a sort, preventing the cup from being easily knocked over and broken. The cup is the serene blue of a foggy heaven, with a matte finish, balancing quietly in the stern of the basket. The sea is calm tonight and stars beam down. The inside of the cup is glazed a glossy beige, at least for an inch or so below its lip. Only the lights above, frozen in their austere tracks, know where the cup is sailing, and what, if anything, it holds.

F.J. Bergmann edits poetry for Mobius: The Journal of Social Change ( and imagines tragedies on or near exoplanets. Work appears irregularly here and there.

photo by Richard Sangi