Pitcher (for my husband)

When I smack the replacement glass pitcher into
the side of the sink and
it sings its song of not
breaking,
not yet–

when I can hear the molecules
sprinting around its wide hips
and up around its open lips, sprinting
like sand under a salty wave,
like salt drying away–

when I can see where the crack should be–
up through the stout neck, around the handle,
straight around the belly like an egg
and yet no crack appears–

when I slam the pitcher again from sheer clumsiness
and pull it back and I find no crack,
for a minute it is you–

it does not shatter into the drain (though it could),

it does not refuse to hold water (though it could),

it does not pinch my hand with fear
of what could have been its end
(though it certainly could)–

It is fragile and strong,
thick and thin,
opaque and translucent, transparent

and if it could, it would hold me.

I fill it.