by Rachel M. Ewing
The tiny fragments each glitter alone.
The cracks are spider webs
Carefully woven through the porcelain plate
As golden as the sun.
The broken pieces
Sit centimeters from one another
Just barely not touching
The jagged edges
Fit like puzzles pieces
Like two people understanding each other,
Yet the edges can cut,
Like people throwing plates
And storming out the door.
The largest piece is a safe island
Amongst the choppy sea of glass,
Not a mess to clean up
But a reminder of
anger as burning as a plate off the stove
Shattered and destroyed
A beautiful disaster.
But at least we know
That the dish is beyond repair.
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