Bowl
In Feng Shui, they say that chipped crockery
attracts bad qi. My mother is a broken
bowl, early twentieth century, provenance
Auchtertool. The Japanese rebirth broken
pots through process of Kintsugi, through which
shards are soldered together with liquid gold.
My mother's anger sears white hot as solder.
She's a crooked spring, a mangled Jack-in-the-Box
that jump-shocks the moon-faced crowd. What
have I done – but the witch in her burns hot,
itching for mischief: she will hurt me if she can.
Lo, her eyes are white-hot pins for poppets.
I have my pool of the self-same ore. Holding it
from others requires that I run to sea or woods
and let the waves or wind wash it away; let
the waves or boughs break – not my little bowl.
Originally from Montrose, Zoë Green lives and works in Vienna and Berlin. By day, she is a drama teacher; by night, a poet. Her poetry has featured in the London Magazine, Atrium and Ink Sweat and Tears, and is forthcoming in Poetry Salzburg Review, The Interpreter’s House and Sidhe-Press. She is currently assembling her first pamphlet.