The Blue Mug's Silence

The wind is sharp today,

a thin, cold wire

singing at the window,

making the glass hum.

Then, through the wall,

the sudden, hard crack

of a voice, then another,

my neighbor's TV,

a fight breaking out

in the apartment next door.

It’s the sound, not the words.

The way it hits.

Like that blue ceramic mug,

chipped at the rim,

my mother's favorite.

Shattering. On the kitchen floor,

years back.

The noise, a starburst

of porcelain.

Then the quiet.

Just the slow drip

from the faucet,

and my breath, caught

and held.

My throat tight.

Swearing then,

to break the pattern.

But the pieces still glint

in the corner of my eye.