Unfired

It survived three moves in the back of a rental truck,

wrapped in old sweaters and tucked near the spare tire,

only to slip through my grip on a Tuesday morning

because the ceramic was cold and my hands were slick.

It didn't just crack; it surrendered.

The shards scattered across the kitchen floor,

and I noticed for the first time that the heart of the clay

was a bright, raw peach, protected from the soot of the city.

I spent an hour on my knees with a damp cloth.

The orange dust worked its way under my fingernails,

a dry, stubborn silt that felt like I was touching

the very bottom of something I wasn't meant to break.