The Chip

The chip was small, a thin dark line,

a place where the rim finally gave way,

and I stood with soap on my hands, the day

slowing down around that small design

of damage on white.

Three years I'd kept the bowl.

From someone I don't talk to anymore.

Never used it. Just stored

it behind the glasses, the whole

collection of what I couldn't throw away.

The chip made the choice for me.

It was damaged now, but still complete enough

that I could finally let it go,

could finally say this is enough—

not quite broken, but broken free.

I set it on the counter,

surrounded by soapy water,

the white porcelain darkened by the wet,

the thin line of damage finally set

where everyone could see.

I didn't wash it.

Didn't throw it away.

Just left it there, broken in the water,

waiting for whatever comes after.