The Clean Break

It was hiding behind the box of bran flakes,

a heavy blue mug I forgot I had kept.

I remember the sound that a clean break makes,

and how quiet I stayed while the rest of you slept.

The handle is still on the left-hand side,

a perfect half-moon with a sharp, milky spine.

There isn't a chip or a place left to hide

the fact that the fault was entirely mine.

I pressed them together just to feel the click,

the ghost of a vessel, a temporary mend.

But the porcelain is cold and the lie is too thick;

it’s just two different pieces that meet at the end.