Portrait of My Mother as a Teapot

by Sharon Black

Glazed, fine-boned, not a chip in sight.
Slender spout with just the right amount of curve            

for purpose and aesthetic. Showroom quality,            
a wingless porcelain bird, long neck reaching out             

across the biros and the books. Or turning
to gossip with another teapot, spout to spout,

on matching rattan mats. Eye of a storm,
it’s surrounded – spoons,                

spilled sugar, crumbs, abandoned straw –
small white planet that I orbit with my cup,

even when it’s empty,
even when the kettle isn’t on.