Poetry

Broken Piece

Previously Published in Converse University's Concept 2024

I am a piece of a broken thing
Of what was and what could have been
And now never will.
I am the piece of the pottery that survived the fall,
My sharp edges cut into the soft flesh of those who would try and pick me up,
Streams of red roses growing from their hands
But hands still reach for me never the less.
And little bit,
By bit
One of the edges is smoothed over
To provide a handhold.
Now the hands can grasp me as a weapon or a tool
But prefer to simply admire the design of my ceramic
Incomplete as it may be
Perhaps I would look good in a mosaic.

Picture by Serafima Lazarenko