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.
My attention
caught on the line
of knives (another gift) standing like
stiff, high-collared soldiers,
all sharper than me and best
left to falling, if
they fall.
Doing dishes,
I dry what you wash
and, watching the knives,
I leave enough porcelain 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 seizing
a passing magpie’s eye.
The final sliver won’t
be caught up by broom bristles and
dust pan 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.
Published in Saint Katherine Review (Issue 6.2)