Missed by the waitress
in her haste to keep up
with the lunch rush,
the empty sugar packet
rests against the salt shaker.

The hands that tore it open
left behind a little residue of self,
lines and whorls belonging
to that person alone.

Now I press my fingerprints
onto the water glass
and lift it in a private toast:
to a new identity
   made sweet
without you.

—Martha Christina, Bristol, RI