The Plate That Didn’t Break

Edge jagged, worn down by years—

the chip catches light,

a scar that won’t smooth away.

Grease stains linger in the hollows,

a map of dinners eaten and spilled,

a quiet testament to time’s slow work.

I don’t reach for the new, the clean,

but the one that holds the dents,

the imperfections that mirror my own.

The plate bears its breaks without complaint,

and I do the same,

eating from the pieces that stayed whole enough.