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.