The plate

Want to smash that plate in your hand?
I do
as I stand looking at the funnel shaped whirl go round and round,
till it sinks into the kitchen drain. It’s a new itch
that I have. Not that new really,
in this lifetime of many lives that I have lived,
and the many roles that I have filled,
an obedient daughter, a useful wife, a doting mother
they have all taken something of me. Chipping little by little,
like wood splinters, impossibly small for them to notice,
but me. Some are lodged in my flesh, while others
sprinkled around like fireworks. I see those bits
drain into the sink, as I stand holding the plate in my hand.
A little ask, a little more, a little of it every moment given
till the little is not little, but a cavernous space grown.
She sits in me and sometimes, I sit within her hollows,
and we talk. We talk about the good days,
a life among infinite possibilities. We hold hands
and I smile.
Our conversation is light and sunny, until
I notice the plate and see the drain vortex,
our words turn dark and gloomy. We hold hands
and I cry.
The kitchen sink is full and
my tears do not ease the pain.
The sink stinks, clogged.
There is no whirlpool whirling, its choked
full of me. She screams bursting to my limits.
We hold the plate together, raise it above my head,
the water overflows gushing from the slab to the tiled floor, and
I know today is the day.
The plate drops from my hands
breaks into tiny little pieces, almost as small as me.
Some roll under the table, some under the cabinet
impossible to gather with a broom and a dustpan. I let them be,
settle in their preferred nooks and crannies.
I open the door, and we finally walk out.