I fell off the 30/30 train but here’s the last poem I wrote.
Love Poem to a Broken Mug
You bit two red moonslivers
into my hand
the thumb and pointer finger knuckles
I had been reaching into you
with the yellow sponge,
forgot your chipped edges
in wanting to fill you
with warm suds
Even now,
blood leaking lazily
into the water,
I only think
I was not gentle enough.
I was too reckless;
I did not care for you properly.
I still do not ask myself
why I kept you
I suppose I admired
your sharpness,
believed, somehow,
you could choose
how it would touch someone
else’s soft skin.
I loved your smoothness,
the parts of you I could run
my hands over
and over.
I thought you were whole
enough.
I left you on the counter,
half-rinsed,
as if someone else
would make the choice
for me.