The Weight of the Pieces

The dial tone is a flat, gray line

vibrating against my ear.

I looked at the bowl, the one with the blue rim,

and I just wanted to see it stop being a bowl.

I wanted the noise to match the heat in my throat.

Now the kitchen is too quiet.

I’m picking through the crumbs of stoneware.

One jagged white shard is sitting

inside my sneaker by the door,

waiting for me to forget it's there

and step down.