It slipped from my hand to the granite counter top
and split jaggedly in two thick, heavy pieces.
Everything I think I know tells me it’s Grandma’s dish,
though I don’t remember scooping mixed nuts from its smooth curve
or picking candy from inside its pointed armor.
When it cracked, I did too.
In the evening I rinsed that day-old sink of handwashables
and thought about the recent past.
It was a heavy day, full of life, death,
It must’ve been the thinking.
It’s never about the dish.