Porcelain Bisque
I’ve come to see myself
once lovely porcelain
now cracked, rebroken, cracked again,
and countless times reglued.
and painted ~ over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over
I feel as though I used to be a
a sugar bowl of bisque
fragile, flawless, exquisite
And then the men,
the ten or more,
who played their evil games
Oblivious to my tenderness
Ignorant of my worth
They all reached forth with grasping thumb
to break away a piece of me
I rescued every single piece
and glued it back in place
and carefully painted every seam, over and over and over and over and over and 
over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over
over and over and over and over and over and over and over and overTo cover them, I counted
lines upon the highway
every step to school
poles and scalloped wires.
I honed my intellect
adding numbers all day long
and multiplying too
tracing every letter
spelling every word
typing, typing, typing,
or shorthand curli-ques
All inside my head of course,
For no one ever knew
that every breath was measured
every step was counted
and every line defined.
I rode my bike in China (as a missionary)
for sixty hours a week
and every moment diligent
to aim the front wheel right
I halved the painted shoulder line
on every single street
and as I halved, I counted
in Chinese, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over
and over and over and over and over and overBefore I had my Doublemint
to help replace the thumb
there was cotton wool or mattress tick
with which I filled the emptiness
and served to keep me dumb.
And don’t forget the warm spot (inside my elbow)
with the three-sided vein
that I fondled with a fingertip
as I typed or spelled or counted
in cadence taps of three, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over
Did I mention, I sing as well?
Yes, little nursery rhymes
or on a good day, even hymns,
but only one refrain, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over
Thus I painted over the cracks
the only means of knowing
that I had been destroyed.
I functioned very well,
as anyone could see,
I was quite amazing,
so talented and smart.
No one would ever guess
Least of all myself.
I birthed my babies one to four
and carried in my bowl
the sugar for them all
And as the years have taken
their unrelenting toll
the glue has started peeling,
beneath the coats of paint.
I gave them all my sweetness
and they scraped the sides for more
But since no one ever filled me
There wasn’t any more.
As they’ve continued scraping,
the cracks have come to show.
I fear the day it happens
The day I fall apart
I’ve used up all my glue now
And painted out my heart.
1994 – Margaret M. Cavaletto
