Still Good

The chip is on the inner rim—

nearly modest about it,

tucked so a person could eat off this plate

for years without noticing.

I noticed last night.

The spoon kept finding it.

Then my lip.

I set the spoon down

and looked at the plate for a long time.

She asked last week if I needed new dishes.

I said no before the sentence finished leaving her mouth.

The embarrassment of that came later—

standing at the sink,

the water going cold.

It happened slowly, whatever happened.

The glaze closed around the edge

and kept going, which is almost admirable,

or would be if the plate were a person,

or if I were less careful

about the kind of language I let myself use.

Still good.

That's what I said.

I meant it.

I think I meant it.