Belated

I forgave the fracture you lent me
(months ago, you know that) as wordlessly
as water whispers grit away. I knew
not to wait for apology
(which came
like belated funeral flowers.
I was
the widow and the deceased.)

Walking home today, a wet
mug was left in leaves, in half
on the street,
hemispheres held
together
by the handle.

I cleaned it up, cut my hand,
(but no blood) set it
on the desk
to dry out in the sun. It fell
and spread out on the floor for me
to clean again
(again, again.)

It broke in the way that only something
already broken can break.