Friday, April 17, 2015

THE CRACKED VASE - April Poem #17

Today's prompt from There Is No Pilot invites us to "Make a metaphor that likens the self to an inanimate thing, say 'I am an ice cream cone' or 'I am an all-weather tire.' What implications does your new context have for your human attributes - say, your body, the way you speak or breathe or for your sexuality? Write a poem in which you ponder your new container." Hmmm.


Not shaped from fine white porcelain, certainly no
treasure from the Ming dynasty, nor Sevres,
Limoges, not even Belleek, but simple earthenware. Still,
I have turned a head or two, drawn the occasional admiring glance.
The potter made me sturdy but curved to fit the hand.

My glaze is crepuscular - blue, gray, lavender,
like darkening twilight, like a bruise over
a white undercoat that shows only in thin streaks
of separation, revealing what lies beneath.

A flaw in firing left an almost invisible crack
up one side, so I don't hold water.
The leakage is too little to notice until,
over time, it can ruin a fine wood surface.
Therefore I am useless for flowers, unless
they're dried or artificial. But no one knows that,
so long as I stand with my back against the wall.

              - Victoria Stefani

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