NaPoWriMo #14 – The Kiln
You dream lately of dainty things–
your late grandmother’s teacup set
(your mother’s mom you never met),
with roses gold, inset in rings
around the cracked ceramic rim.
You touch it and the teacup sings
a soft and distant mournful hymn.
You wonder what fear prompted this–
the prize of a stranger long since dead–
and in your dream your mother said
you’d been made in the same furnace.
You think the fear might be of fire.
You lie down and start to reminisce
on skin sintering in a pyre.