Sharp White

I’m down on my knees in the dark of the hall

sweeping the bits that have hit the wall.

The bowl that she left when she moved away

finally finished its long decay.

It’s a field of teeth on the kitchen tile,

enough to make a person revile

the way that a hand can just let go

and ruin a thing that we used to know.

The glaze is a glint in the oven light,

snapping its jaws in the middle of night.

I’m bleeding a little, a thin red line,

trying to save what was never quite mine.