Structural Integrity

It’s four in the morning and the floor is a sheet of ice.

I am down on my knees with a tube of clear heat,

trying to make the jagged ceramic suffice,

trying to make the edges of the handle meet.

This was her favorite, the blue floral rim,

now a puzzle of shards by the refrigerator door.

The light in the kitchen is grayish and dim

as I press the pieces together once more.

A bead of the chemical sits on my thumb,

a transparent drop that refuses to set.

My skin is tacky, my fingertips numb,

caught in a bond that isn't ready yet.

The fracture remains, a thin, silver vein

where the strength of the clay gave way to the tile.

Some things you fix only to keep the pain

in a shape you can look at for a little while.