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Something there was that made the pottery fall.
The shatter of it was slow to register—
I did not know what it was,
Or did not want to know.
My pottery does not fall very often;
When it does, it is a tragedy of the utmost gravity.
I stoop to the ground,
I pick up the pieces,
Arranging them as to recreate the original shape,
And wondering which type of glue or paste
Would best make the illusion of un-break.
That way, from far away,
No one would know of the shattering—
Not even I.
But.
Sometimes I don't have a glue or paste,
And am left with such a waste,
For I am holding the pieces in place,
Willing it, wishing it back to un-break,
And wondering, wondering if all pottery is made for un-make.
"It is broken."
"No, not broken."
"It is just clay."
"I am broken."
"No, not broken."
"I am just clay."
Alas, I shall just make another pottery out of clay,
Another pottery to itself un-make.
Sophia Chen