What Holds

The bowl broke because I reached for something

I didn't need. It was my mother's—

she made it, painted a flower on the side,

red, slightly off-center.

I bought a two-dollar tube of superglue

from the pharmacy on the corner.

The orange cap kind. I squeezed it

into the crack and held the pieces together

until my fingers stuck.

The crack runs through the painted flower now,

the glue dried white in the seam—

you can see every line if you look.

I put it back on the windowsill.

She hasn't been by yet.

When she comes she'll ask what happened.

I've been working on the answer.

I don't have one that fits.

The bowl is holding.

The crack is still there.

I keep looking at it in the morning light

and I can't stop seeing where it broke.