Bowl

Turn it over and look up into the sphere of heaven. The tracery is lucent, light seeping through to write, white-ink your face, upturned. Swing it below and it's a cradle of blue water, the sea, a womb. A mixing bowl for Babylonian gods. Here, they whirl up the cosmos. Pick it up and your hands form a pedestal, and all who drink contain the arcs of body and the universe— and between them, no imaginable tear or distance.