A Woman Prophet Breaks a Jar
It fell with a crash.
A sickening thud that was matched
Only by the sickening acknowledgment that
Thisâ€”was an end.
It had taken years to get the shape
Of that damn jar just right
But only seconds for its obliteration.
“Don’t cry over spilled milk, baby.
Flat as the heart rate procession of the dead
Her voice was a horizontal monitor of the state
Of their association.
He wondered if the breaking of the jar,
The death of the pottery,
The smooth motion of her white arm
Knocking it off the shelf
Were really accidents.