I was drying the platter the big white one

I was drying the platter, the big white one

we used for the turkey that nobody finished.

My hands were soapy, a stupid mistake,

and it slid. It didn't shatter into a thousand teeth.

It just gave up. One sharp, surgical snap

and there were two heavy crescents on the floor.

I picked them up and pressed the edges together,

matching the grainy, unglazed grit of the inside.

It fit perfectly. For a second, it looked whole again,

except for the hairline fracture, the thin gray vein

of the truth. I held it there, my wrists shaking,

because I knew as soon as I let go, it would be twice.