The Chalice
by Christine Adams Beckett
The handle broke off cleanly
From the rest of her english creamware
Bunny mug. For a moment she remained
Still, comically holding the stub
Whilst the rest of the Stoke-on-Trent
Receptacle miraculously rest on the table
In a second, otherwise unmolested piece.
In a slap stick gesture, she brought the phantom
Cup to her lips and giggled. She then
Wept suddenly, violently, as she declared
The Desert Rose for Big Tomato Company
As her favorite for drinking orange juice.
“You gave it to me!” she cried. I mused:
It was really the Easter Rabbit who bequeathed
The delivery system of Sharon Olds’s
Nectar to nourish Every Gold Cell
Of her unspoiled, eleven year-old body.
Strategically placed Gorilla Glue
Has united the two pieces together
In a more worldly, experienced whole.
Bunny has a story now, a wabi-sabi
Aesthetic, reminding her that nothing
Exists in perfection. Nothing lasts.
One day a plain glass will do
To commune the nourishing juice
To her precious cells, a transubstantiation
Of her mother’s love when the body is
A mere handleless phantom.
