I grabbed the plate this morning

I grabbed the plate this morning,

my thumb found the chip—

the small white break on the rim,

the damage I'd been living with,

the flaw that had become familiar.

It's ceramic. White. Ordinary.

Except for the break, the glaze gone,

the raw edge that catches

if I'm not careful, if I drink too fast,

if I forget what it is.

I could replace it.

There are perfect plates in the cabinet.

But something about the break

makes it mine, makes it real,

makes it the only one I want to use.

There's a dark line in the crack,

stain that won't bleach away,

proof of use, of time,

of being held by someone

who stopped seeing the damage

except when she had to,

except when her thumb

found it again, remembered.

I eat off it anyway.

I've learned to live with the broken edge,

the imperfect rim,

the plate that's more honest

than the whole ones,

more trustworthy,

more me.