The Floral Shards

That kid in aisle three, just swatting

the cereal box down, a loud crash

for no reason. His mother sighed.

And I just stood there, caught.

The sound of it, thin cardboard, dry flakes,

called up a memory, sharp and hot.

The ceramic mug, blue flowers, cheap,

slammed against the kitchen wall.

Not a mistake. A choice. A fury

that needed to break something, anything.

The sound, then the silence, then the small,

sharp pieces on the linoleum.

How quickly the heat drains, leaving only

the mess. The cold ache in the jaw.