The Maps Etched on Enamel

The enamel, once smooth, a white sea,
Guarded the beginning, without trace.
Then came the spoon, the weary breath
Of a daily gesture, a threat
Light, a faint scratch, almost silent,
First furrow in unseen time.

Now, a thousand lines chase and merge,
Opaque cobwebs or thin gray rivers,
Testimonies of mornings that hide,
Of spilled coffee, of light miracles
Of hands that held, placed, brushed,
An invisible atlas that formed itself.

Every mark is a breath, an uncertain echo
Of lives passed over this extinguished threshold.
There is no oblivion that that open canvas
Does not know how to hold, while it invents
A constellation of lost moments,
On the consumed enamel, eternally mute.