which plate to throw

when my mother would throw a dish

at my father
after coming home late

to a cold dinner.
lipstick on his cheek that he

didn't bother to wipe off,
she'd choose the chipped plates.

the old plates.
rarely did I see the next morning

broken on the floor,
in wild cut shards,

her blue favorites. her good
china.

her heirlooms.
even in her anger she had good taste.