she was like the tiny, little
broken, china teacup
that i would use to dip sugar
from out of the big jar
that i kept in the fridge
she was there,
all covered in sticky sweetness…
chipped, jagged
cold
and poised
to cut the lip
©2026 Kevin Trent Boswell
From the book on the page – poems for artists, writers, and other hooligans
