Cont'd

Four days later
Still gleaming on the kitchen table

                                [ Right next to the garlic, roasted tender and sweet

                                  For the bean broth

                                  Stewed overnight

                                  Steaming

                                  Staining the mood. ]

Edges blunted
Wrists still haunted by their sharp touch.

My first poem. It doesn't rhyme

Lest I forget
How to feel
It's right there on the floor
Glimmering invitingly
In the ripe afternoon light - smooth, full and soft
Lightly spiced, like my grandmothers plum jam
Rolling over the edges
Sharpening them

I broke it earlier
Just before I broke myself