home sweet home

my mother rarely saw a plate
that she didn't
want to throw at my father's head.
whether it had food on it
or not, hardly mattered.
he became quite adept at dodging,
ducking, sliding side to side.
the next morning was like
a war zone, broken glass everywhere.
a coffee pot thrown
threw a window, lying
in the yard.
forks and knives,
red sauce on the ceiling,
the phone cord
cut, a door knob broken,
a hole the size of a fist
straight through the other side
of a door.
fun stuff.
she'd be on the couch, asleep,
a strip of white adhesive tape
holding her
glasses together,
a new cast on her arm.
and he'd be gone, somewhere.
sobering up in someone
else's arms.