shattered on the floor
my favorite coffee mug
nothing big, not much of a thing,
just my favorite coffee mug--
sunshine yellow, with coffee beans,
and a coffee spoon printed inside at the top
along with a line from my favorite poem,
“I have measured out my life in coffee spoons”
yes, trite, you might say, emblazoned upon a coffee mug
but still, yes, I loved the mug, love the poem.
and there it was—
shattered upon the floor
there she stood,
apologizing—ad nauseam—
saying she’d buy another to replace it.
But it was not to be found.
Of course, the store didn’t have them anymore.
The mug was the first broken thing.
The first of a few, if it wasn’t liked,
didn’t fit into the ideal
of what could be
forged of me
if pinched in the grip of tongs
and held in the fire long enough
to be broken down to a molten,
malleable state, pounded upon the anvil,
shaped, dipped in water to sizzle cool enough
to start the process over again—
for easy fracture.
Many things ended up broken,
shelved, stored in closets—
pictureless frames and frameless pictures,
parts of me
hidden away, never to be seen
sitting on shelves
in black closets—
until I emerged
chipped but no worse for wear
unbroken into the light.
I envy the monarch’s, the hummingbird’s arc of return, infinite, eternal. My jealousy consumes as I have no return, no cycle— Only the damnation of this linear thing, finite, directionless.
As I prepare the hummingbird feeders
To place in the yard,
My mind gathers the threads of my what-ifs,
Thinking to knit
Some alternate reel
Of these last few years.
But my what-ifs unravel
As my hands no longer possess
The dexterity to knot
The ends and edges
Of time I never found
To circle the earth,
Looking for you
As I took wide gaited steps,
Covering as much ground
As possible.
Yet still, knowing
Had I found you,
My words would
Have stumbled
Over each other,
Clumsy from lacking sense
Of time lost, wasted—
And yet, I think of you every day, after all these years.
The you before the world shrank with color draining away,
The you before the new penny color of your hair faded to white,
The you with warm blue topaz eyes reflecting sunshine prisms,
Not the ice glinting gemstones they became.
And I—
I had fresh, pure words,
Weaving us a blanket of innocence and love
As we curved toward each other in youth.
But I cannot stride the world anymore
In search of you.
Thus, I let you go,
Hoping you find softness
Like the hummingbird
Who brushes her cheek against
The petals of a dinner plate hibiscus
In search of nectar.
Coffee in hand,
watching the summer sun rise here,
would that I could gather
these colorful threads of light,
golden rose, orange raging gem hues,
weave of them a perfect thing for you,
I do not know what it would be,
but a picturesque thing—
so pure, so perfect, encompassing all
you did not know you wanted, needed:
words would fall away in breath stolen,
our spirits cleansed by the sight
would bask in its light.
Being human, I have no talent
for weaving or creating
a thing so new
for you.
I’m honored and humbled to have two poems included among the works of such talented authors. The work resonates with the strength it takes to not just survive—but to thrive.
To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!
Showcasing the best of short films and screenplays from the LGBTQ+ community. Screenplay Winner every single month performed by professional actors. Film Festival occurs 21 times a year!
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 