a poem ‘teapots’ 1

when others looked at you, me, they saw

teapots in fragments, broken, coloured shards, light spring green, a magenta a

deepen black but, black even in its

edge

they told me not to marry you, your voice would always be speaking, requesting, demands, gently but never

hearing or

listening

I like running my hands over edges, my hurt heart; my broken leg – rubbing it softly, gently to ease the pains, believing in kindness, doftness

gentleness