Broken

Repair should be evident. It should strut an arrogant song, instead of pacifying quietly.
It should deny nothing.

She has never restored a single ceramic by hiding the cracks, the chips, replenishing
patterns exactly where their colours have strayed.  Her sutures show, a defiant testament
to damage. The withered fingers lay down gold lacquer, honouring every imperfection,
every beautiful break. One scarred lover caressing another.

Repair bellows. It is not a bird, pecking seeds from a child’s hand. It is not the woman
who trades all she is for costume jewellery.

She is in love with the unused vase on the table, so exposed outside its shelter of
Styrofoam. It begs for the strength she will someday bestow, its surface so intact, so
ignorant of history.

(A slightly different version of this poem appeared in Shearsman)