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.

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