When it crashed,
to the floor,
the Ming, I mean
the Labrabdor shuddered.
But the cat swished her tail, purring.
She curled herself around my feet
I stood there for a while, tracing
the air as the fragments rose,
drifting in china clouds.
Held for only seconds. Then
spat out onto the Wooden floor.
Fake, of course. The vase.
And the laminate. And this life;
I couldn’t call Mum, to tell her the news.
I sank, instead, beside this graveyard of antiquity.
jigsawing together the shards
of a broken past.
© Jacqui Thatcher 2014