Plate, Martha Sprackland

7 December 2013

You held it to yourself one night
clasped the cold white china
against your breast like a shield
suds stained dark your blue shirt
like the army march of lichen.
Stood still beside the deep sea sink
you curled your hands around the edge
felt the soft ecstatic curve
the rolling drips from the glaze
locked tight like icicles
caught at the thaw.
I heard you in the kitchen
laughing at the hectic tearing
of rubber gloves from your hands
to grasp the cold surface
the joy of tasting something solid,
the absolute sweetness of material.

[Read in The Salt Book of Younger Poets]

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