Poem: The Porcelain Cup

Written 5/14

Critique Welcome!

I hold a porcelain cup in my hand.

Hand-painted ivy twirls through

Dancing harps—

I can hear their music.

I can speak their language,

Silence.

Its lip curves toward mine.

This side has but slight irregularities,

Only visible when my eye draws it so near,

So very near,

That everything else blurs.

I hold the porcelain cup in my hand,

And ache for it to be complete

As it once was—

But now it is broken.

Even now it is crying,

“Let me be whole!”

Let mine fingers stroke its side,

Jagged and painfully unique

And I will drink my tea.

That awful tea,

From my beautiful, broken cup.