The room was silent, or so they say.
Noise was present, as it always is
when a room is not empty. The dull hum
of the fridge fills the quiet.
Why is the theoretical silence so loud? Who told it,
Be noisy? It wasn’t me but
perhaps, it was you. Glances
across the kitchen to where you stand,
broken glass still littering the floor. Mouth
agape in apparent shock, you stare stupidly at me.
Yes, I threw it at you.
The light blue pitcher, which we dubbed Sir Vase
with an ivory orchid, now molded into a mess
of shards. The container was dead,
as the flower would soon be. Our love
crushed beside the disarray.
Your infidelity caused this, not my unbridled rage.
Your transgressions can’t be forgiven with a mere plant,
even if it was my favorite. Ironic that in the language of flowers, it represents
refinement, love, and beauty. There is none of that here, but
this is what kitchens are made of:
broken dishes and broken dreams.