Fault Lines

The ceramic plate didn't shatter with a ring.

It hit the mat and gave a dull, wet thud,

the sound of a rib snapping under a coat,

or the way you said 'I'm sorry' into the sink.

I thought I got every piece on Tuesday night,

but today I found a shard of white porcelain

wedged deep under the baseboard by the trash,

a sharp, hidden tooth waiting for a heel.

I trace the hairline fracture on my favorite mug,

a thin, brown vein where the coffee has seeped in.

It’s still a cup, I guess, it still holds the heat,

but it’s only a matter of time before the leak.