Sometimes it takes two hands wrapped around to pour
if the vessel is full, if the liquid is at the lip.
Sometimes a curve forms from my wrist to forearm to rest
against thick glass or the raised ridges of spotted ceramic pulling
tendons to match the melting morphing slopes of my organs.
Pulling back the vessel to avoid a flood.
If liquid pools soaking dirt or trailing down my chin I have
gone too far again, waited too long again, missed the mark again.
When a crack appears, invisible web or immense fracture
of fragments, the liquid will escape like a soul.
When holding safely becomes spilling out does purpose exist?
Sometimes my hands aren’t ready when the shatter comes.
But the shatter does come, wets my feet like a wayward
blessing and renews the ground below, despite
the original intent of tongue to throat or roots to leaves.
Predestined movement under my skin; I just can’t help the slip.
Kit Roffey (They/Them) is a queer non-binary writer. They are a recent graduate of Huron at Western University holding a B.A. in English and Cultural Studies. Their work has appeared in Prairie Fire and The Stratford Quarterly. They can be found on Twitter @KitRoffey