dishwasher baby

crawling into steam. 
the tea cups of me knees.
i wanted to be a warm plate
beneath your hand. wanted a ghost
to breathe heavy on my back until
nothing of your fork remained.
a body is both a vessel & 
the vesseled. blood broken
like china. i used to be 
so delicate. used to place a plate
on my head & wear it the whole shower long.
balance, the art of not tipping
into shards. heat & pressure.
i know the plight of metaphormic rock.
that desire to shift form 
inside of polish. once, i broke a plate
& the plate was a baby. fingers reaching
for a knot in the ceiling. 
nest of glass. cooing to him & saying
"brother it will be alright." 
i put his pieces inside the machine
& waited for clean to make him whole.
if you lose the whole enough times
is there a fullness to return to?
or, maybe, is it just a doorway?
bowls & spoons make great 
passageways. all i want is to 
be cradled & pristine. it is always
too much to ask for. make me helpless
again. make me a turine
or the big-bellied metal mixing bowl.
could there be enough infancy 
to go around again. the baby arrives 
with a chipped tooth. i put her 
on the shelf next to all the glasses.
in them, her reflect twists.
the dishwasher asks for another traveler.
i close the door. 
nothing & everything is clean

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