Under Porcelain

She smiled, The kind that fits Like fine porcelain On polished shelves. She added the sugar, Asked about the day, But folded her voice Into careful pleats. No one noticed, The twitch in her hand, How the tea danced Before the quick sips. She laughed, But her breath shook, Like windows trembling Before the wind. Even the mirror, Cracked behind her veil Dared not speak Of the quiver it caught. She kept it hidden, Polished with grace, While deep beneath The cracks grew teeth. For grace, they say, Is to endure unshaken. But no one warned How silence splinters. How can a porcelain Bear the aches? Until the fine cracks Become the shape?