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Porcelain
October 9, 2022
I am not iron.
I never was meant to be.
Born and stoked in embers,
Laid in fiery pits, well
Fostered and fierce.
Or clumps of matted clay,
Where mountains are created lay,
Constructed and molded,
And then destroyed and reassembled,
Into beautiful dreams.
I was torn to be
This very porcelain.
I was cut, with shards
Of sickly pale,
To hold this battered brilliance,
And both the world,
In my small cup.
Now and again,
We slip sometimes,
My face felt falling.
Now then,
I can sign.
I am a broken body,
Bathed in sunlight.
None left of me to be,
The cup that once
held everything.
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