Ever after
all he could remember were the plates.
She’d been standing at the sink,
rubber gloves cuff-deep in froth.
This has gone on long enough, he’d said,
as scum slid over piling dishes,
a wedding gift from years ago.
That’s when she’d turned.
Throwing down the sponge
she hurled the hate of sixteen silent days.
Dumb once more, he stood there,
letting her words wash over him
until the torrent dried up.
She laid into the crocks.
He crouched behind the table leg
as piece by piece they crossed the gap
until the draining board was bare
and the fragments of their marriage
scattered round him on the floor.
At last it seemed over.
Alone once more he crawled out
to the cupboard, rummaging the depths
for the twin tube pack of epoxy resin.
Bit by bit he mixed the two disparate parts
into a workable solution.