Her black eye is a crushed grape behind the glasses,
that are not sweet fruit
bleed free of the frame if she tilts her head
which she is careful not to do.
She speaks about Jerry.
He is tall for his age,
smart for his age.
He’s starting to look a lot like me.
The black sea
inside the cup doesn’t concern me
yet my daughter pauses to ask, “Need some sugar?”
forgetting—or maybe not—that her sunglasses are
dark but not reflective.
“Sure,” I say. “Yes, I’ll have some.”