The bowl went first slipping through soapy heat

The bowl went first, slipping through soapy heat,

and found the floor with a dull, ceramic thud.

It didn't shatter into a thousand feet

of glittering dust, just lay there in the mud

of spilled dishwater, heavy and complete.

My father grips the table's edge to rise,

his knuckles turning white against the oak.

There is a stubborn iron in his eyes

as if the air around him finally broke

and left him pinned beneath the evening skies.

I have a bruise the color of a grape

where I forgot the corner of the door.

We spend our lives in this unfinished shape,

trying not to lean into the floor,

with no way out and no plan for escape.