The Handle

My favorite mug,

the one with the chipped rim

from last year's move,

slipped.

Not a slow slide, no,

a quick, clumsy arc

from counter to linoleum.

And then the sound.

Sharp, sudden,

too loud for the quiet kitchen.

A porcelain scream.

Now, a fine dust, like sugar,

and the handle,

still mostly whole,

lying separate.

A clean break, where it used to meet

the curve of the cup.

It didn't shatter.

It just let go.