I took from the fridge the cut glass cream jug, sipped
the dregs, then on tiptoes set it in the sink with a squirt
of detergent, determined to do it all by myself.

I felt the crack as hot water burst through the base,
the burn of tears scalding my face long after Mum’s

But it was such a good pourer

For years she used the chubby pottery replacement
I slipped out to buy (for 12 ½ pence). Mismatched,
yet solid on the table, Mum handled it delicately:

though it always poured with hesitance,
as if choking an apology.