Cleaning Up the Outburst

The drawer jammed again, a stubborn lip of wood

catching on nothing, or maybe everything,

and suddenly I wasn't being good

or patient or whatever else I try to bring

to this empty kitchen. I grabbed the mug,

the one you gave me when the heat was new,

and threw it at the baseboard. A hollow chug

of ceramic hitting pine, and then it flew

into a dozen white and jagged teeth.

I’m sweeping now. My anger’s gone so cold

it’s practically a frost. I find underneath

the radiator a piece I’d like to hold—

a bit of the handle with a brown, dry stain

of old coffee trapped in a hairline crack.

I broke the only thing that didn't cause me pain

and no amount of glue will bring it back.