The Lip of the Plate

The fork scrapes it,

a tiny, specific

hiccup in the morning quiet.

That chip.

It's been there for years,

a crescent moon,

a small, ceramic wound

on the rim.

Worn smooth now,

from a thousand washes,

a thousand times

my thumb has found it.

It holds the cereal.

Holds the eggs.

Never leaks.

Just carries that small,

imperfect edge.

A familiar flaw.

Like a scar you forget

is there, until

something catches.