Despite blessed salt thrown
to the corners of each room and all
of the best wishes, I drop
a plate and am first
to break a piece
of our place
settings.
Doing dishes,
I dry what you wash
and, watching the knives,
I leave enough porcelain weight
out over the counter’s edge
to tilt the whole thing
down into air leaving
no hope to
catch.
Rim first
it collapsed,
then scattered into
a legion of edges
now beyond any
other use.
Except maybe as sky in some
mosaic, all sharpness cemented away.
Or maybe as a wretched little prize,
perfect for a passing magpie.
The final sliver won’t
be caught up by broom bristles and
dustpan and is almost too small to be found by sight.
Only your skin will do, or mine. With
unexpected pain and the slightest of
blood sacrifices.
This poem first appeared in The Saint Katherine Review (Issue 6.2)