The Objects in Our House

We fight behind the kitchen dinner table like clockwork.

Dinner is served,

but so is the next argument.

Dishes break as my voice cracks, “Get out!”

“Take your damn shoe! Take the rug from under me!

Take the pencil over there too! Take it all!”

To piss me off, he bends his back,

and winces as bones creak from years of contorting like an acrobat

to fix other people’s things.

The pipes to the sink, to the toilet, and bathroom faucet;

other people’s rooftops and broken doors - he's a real handyman.

He helps others glue objects back together.

He can’t seem to keep my china whole though.

He can’t seem to find his second shoe either.

The objects in our house break by his hands while he fixes others.

But when he bends over, he takes one shoe,

Slithering from his mouth, he sticks his tongue at me,

and breaks the door lock as he turns to leave.

Defying the door that blocks me from him,

I de-flame his love for me. I quiet whatever voice told him to still love me.

The other shoe hits the door, “You’re worthless!”

We destroy objects around us – and each other.

The chinaware, that his mom gifted us, is less fragile than us.

Our choice of weapon is the past or a mistake;

Sometimes it's over the damn shoe he leaves behind

during an argument.

We've fought about my china and dinner too.

The next morning, I find one of the shoes on the bedside table.

He sleeps on the floor, near the foot of the bed.

He snores like a child.

I crawl past him to leave the room.

The sun peaks in through my curtains and illuminates the room.

I take the shoe on our bedside with me.

I place it back at the door with its partner.

Tapping the heel, dirt falls and I sweep it up.

The broom is bent in the middle from one of our dinners.

The cupboards bare two dishes to use for dinner tonight.

Two plates are left to crack.

His shoes are at the door for him to steal into the night with.

I wait to serve the next argument.

The silverware is still hot from the dishwasher,

and two porcelain plates sit across the table from the other.

Wind passed through the room.

He’s late for dinner. He's never late.

“Something isn’t right. He should be here right now.”

I went back to the door to find his shoes.

My eyes break into tears,

shards of water spill where the last dish broke.

There’s an empty space by the door,

patches of dirt trail along the hall through the doors;

He took both shoes this time.

As always, thank you for reading :)

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