Donna Spruijt-Metz

Sarah’s Antique Sake Cup

—after Psalm 107, verses 11-15

Truth is, if you swat flies in the kitchen, towel-snapping 
like a high-schooler in the locker room,
shit is gonna break. 

Chipped once by my carelessness—
now shattered. I want to say by your bravado—but 
it was just bad luck. Breakage—so much of it—  

collateral damage. The cup—of delicate white porcelain—beyond repair—

we could go either way—anger and anguish—or 
dustpan and broom. After all, the cup is just one thing less that our child
won’t want—and it turns out we recall Sarah fine without.

It was beautiful, though. Translucent, seductive—always the promise of knowing it—
although never quite being able to know it—placed on the kitchen windowsill
so she could see that we appreciated it—and so we could look at it  

again and again—our weary morning glances made less weary 
by its symmetry—then the serious beholding, as late afternoon sun

glowed through it—a cathedral
between worlds

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