I have heard you whisper: broken things
are sharp edges. Brokenness begets
brokenness. Why not turn your gaze
towards the glazed ceramic vases,
with their perfect posture and silent
mouths? They have never cursed
their maker, and will forever be
of use. I reply: Consider this.
Perhaps the hand touching
the shattered pieces sees
more life in them than in
things that have never
stood at the edge
of the world.
are sharp edges. Brokenness begets
brokenness. Why not turn your gaze
towards the glazed ceramic vases,
with their perfect posture and silent
mouths? They have never cursed
their maker, and will forever be
of use. I reply: Consider this.
Perhaps the hand touching
the shattered pieces sees
more life in them than in
things that have never
stood at the edge
of the world.
From the latest issue of QLRS by Mary Jean Chan, a rejoinder of a poem she submitted some time back titled The Day You Told Me You Were Tired of Things that Break.
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