THE BREAKING

Blue sky notwithstanding:

The plate slips from the hand without warning, tumbling across to the other basin of the twin-tub sink, sending droplets of washing-up liquid in all directions, and promptly breaking into seven pieces of varying sizes and shapes; reluctant fingers arrested in mid air, restless but still, bearing all the unwanted guilt, and slow-motioning an invidious decision yet to be made. (O, why is the ground so earthy brown?)

“I dream about being
a bright-red personage
holding up
the five Olympic rings...”

The breaking of a plate: a marriage dissolved or dissolving; a kingdom split or splitting; a portent of the conundrum that remains: shards of history, bits of clay, questioning the whence and the wherefores, the inexplicable accusation behind an unnameable shame. (Bright red, O bright red – the sin is scarlet!) When nothing could be said, there’s nothing else to say. Talk of mending seems fanciful: how is it to be done, and where’s the space for imagining ― for love... for hope... for faith...?

“I dream about being
a bright-red personage
holding up
the five Olympic rings...
not knowing
my feet are still trapped
by the other three remaining...”

THE BREAKING

The broken pieces are left homeless, banned from attention, the untouchables of domestic space. The memories they carry weighing on the silent sink, where water refuses to stop and no one’s listening. Slipping (the riverbank is slippery) has loosened everything: ten, one, seven... tenacity, onerous, severance. (O, it’s so slippery!) A pause ― slightly tilting ― willing the hand to scoop up the decision that has now been put in place. (The river’s turning red: stand tall and hold your breath, lest you fall!)

“I dream about being
a bright-red personage
holding up
the five Olympic rings...
not knowing
the rings have all turned white
― their colours
have long been drained.”