By Lisa Lopresti
The breaking of the Denby plate was a satisfying full stop
in the argument. The crash, a more musical note than I was expecting
in the enjoyable glee of the smash, was shockingly loud.
It was a shiver of a ghost day until the violence
of the crockery occurrence appeared to cut off my anger
as finally as a sharp sliver to a finger, drawing blood.
I walked then, under the tightly- packed chevron clouds while
invisible wind whipped hackles on the lake, fury still whirring in me.
The plate had only been my pressure valve for things still stewing.
Moving cools your heels; distance provides some perspective;
but delaying picking up the pieces does not blunt the edges.