I thought it would feel like something—

I thought it would feel like something—

the throw, the wall, the sound.

I'd imagined the becoming

of a person finally found

inside the anger. It didn't feel like that.

It made a crack. Not loud.

Not satisfying. Just flat

ceramic and plaster. The crowd

of pieces. I swept them into a heap,

bagged them, set the bag on the counter. A week

has passed. I pick it up. The sleep

of the pieces inside—a soft creak

of ceramic against ceramic.

I put it back down.

I've done this four times.

I don't know what I'm keeping.