by Allison Zhang

Steam rises from a chipped rim, sketching veins
between morning light and my reflection.

Mother carried this mug across an ocean,
its fracture wrapped in the scent of old sweaters.
She said porcelain traces every touch—
her fingers, her mother’s, mine.

I run my thumb along the fissure,
wonder if broken things remember
the instant they first split.

Sometimes a thread of tea seeps out,
staining the tablecloth like an inkblot.
Still, I lift it to my lips.

My own fractures stay beneath skin,
language caught between my teeth like seeds—
neither ready to root nor willing to be released.

In one tongue, I dream of brined coasts;
in another, I practice speaking of belonging,
making it sound like mine.

Still I drink, bitterness settling in my chest—
warmth reminding me even cracked vessels endure.

I set the mug down.
Ceramic clicks—a ticking pulse—
counting the places I’ve left behind.

Allison Zhang is a poet and writer based in Los Angeles. A bilingual speaker of English and Mandarin, she writes about inheritance and the quiet ruptures of daily life. She was a finalist for the Rattle Poetry Prize, and her work appears in ONE ART, Pithead Chapel, and others.