A terrible poetic potential in old crockery


symbolic of so much lacking

Faded, painful ghostly memories conjured as one alone rummages through her kitchen cupboards

Like a rat in winter, sneezing-

discovering the pots and pans previously brandished by her home-bodied other past halves

They are now left empty, clanging, angry, bitter, unto alternate existences.

She no longer needs them, surely.

A reliable kettle and microwave to settle the evening

Truly, I can order myself flowers when I need them, but it just doesn’t feel the same.

I release expectations and welcome my next tea set.