Beautiful

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Eh, not perfect,” he shrugs

Perfect isn’t beautiful.

I didn’t say it was perfect.

I said it was beautiful.

I hold the porcelain up

to watch the light catch

rubbed, aged gilding.

My hands are too clumsy

for such a delicate cup.

Perfect isn’t beautiful.

Neither is broken, but

when it is put back together -

when the seams are uneven,

and the pattern doesn’t quite

match up along the reassembled pieces -

the chips in the fired pattern 

reveal the raw materials beneath.

For a moment, I think about

all the tiny pieces, particles

swept up, tossed out - 

not integral to its function.

It still holds whatever

is poured into it