"....Bone sliver, his half-/dying."
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
Fall of the Medici
for Ron Mohring
As the Wedgwood would split its blue floral spout,
then so would the man, so would his fragile shape,
but not his ash. As the teapot rocked and fell
you caught its hairline crack.
As quick as the box you emptied of him into
the bayou, as quick as that.
As winter was just frost on your floor that night and no night
went without shiver, when he held the cup and the pekoe
his tooth chipped the shell rim.
You buried it
in the yard below the bulbs and bay bramble. Dug it up
after the internment. Bone sliver, his half-
dying. The teapot’s fracture, your fissure unfilling.
Once its delicate leak was enough
to consider discarding. Water boils threat, breaks the china
cup. Your palm-scald fear, your floating suspended, or only him
blowing the steam from his mouth, warming the air,
the air full of air. You watched them float together, then away.
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