My heart is a smooth ceramic bowl,
With sturdy walls, wheel-tossed,
And a shiny mottled glaze;
It’s hard to be sure of the color.

A deep bowl: for cereal,
Generous ice cream scoops,
And, on occasion,
A whole box of mac & cheese.

It’s hollow, and it hurts.
It’s not broken, 
And it’s not usually empty,
But now I feel an aching lack.

A bowl is still perfect 
Between its many uses,
When sitting pretty in a cabinet,
Or when being cleansed.

In these moments though,
There is a painful tension;
It’s the chasm of wanting use
And waiting for purpose.

(A tidy bowl secretly longs
To be messy,
Filled to the brim
With hot immediacy.)

I’d like once again
To be thoughtfully and tenderly 
Holding something,
Despite the matched grief of letting go.