Ceramic Teeth

The burrito is leaking a yellow-ish oil,

I’m standing over the sink in the dark.

The plate is a heavy, white disk of the past

bearing a jagged and permanent mark.

My thumb finds the notch, the gray-grit scar

where the porcelain shattered and fell.

It’s a ceramic tooth, a sharp little bite

with a story I’m not going to tell.

I could throw it away, get a set that is whole,

but I’m used to the way that it feels.

I just keep scraping the edge with a fork,

missing the point of my meals.