Bowl
When it was whole it was half.
It would never be more than
that: hemisphere with blue
stripes below the rim.
Its use was to hold, a place
to mix, soft scrape of spatula
against flour, milk. Squashed
to a breast, a crook of arm,
full against belly or gripped
by a hand, it gave birth to cake
or bread or soup, unable to define
their shape, never imparting
a spice. Cleaned up, it sat
on a shelf, ready for use.
In breaking it gains fifteen
new selves, every shard
with an edge. Quick
into the trash before it can cut,
where it can sleep its last sleep
among the food it once held.
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