The distracted woman cannot know the rapture
of my specific utility, the fine gloss
nickel carbonate and trapped fire

have given me. She will never be blue-glazed
or darkened by burnt umber. Cannot bend
and crystallize like a half-pipe or bake slowly

at 2,000 degrees. The protons and electrons of my
thingness can never schedule her appointments
or sort her socks. But I can make space for fresh milk,

dark roast or chilled juice. My paradise
is to encircle warm ginger and Oolong tea.
I can always wait for the tea kettle’s song but

the distracted woman will never know my painless
shattering or my cold-sober complacency. My submission
to flame is as infinite as her recklessness.