L Favicchia: "I never said my fingers weren't brittle"

I never said my fingers weren't brittle

coal-crusted and clasped to collar bone
smudged black and holy, or flaking
on the floor where my uncertain hem
sweeps ashes under itself as it holds onto
what it’s picked up before: old crimson leaves,
fishing wire, monkey paws already used,
beard stubble, buttons and thread, portraits
of people I don’t know, cranberries fresh
from the bog—my gilded lion-pawed feet
somewhere under there too, treading
bare or paw-footed, who can tell anymore?
This brittleness I carry as porcelain,
kiln-fired, spun for a long time, each
thumb-print still visible, no maker’s mark,
I hold it out in front of me on fine bone
china—an offering, though my tired quill-plucked
arms will only try so many times, 
will only wait so long—Earl Grey
cools off eventually and all that remains
is cold and bitter, florals 
that must be drunk warm.

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L Favicchia is a PhD candidate in creative writing at the University of Kansas. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in North American Review, Post Road, and Gulf Stream, among others. Their debut collection of poetry is forthcoming from Main Street Rag, and more information can be found at lfavicchia.com.