PLATE OF BONE CHINA

PLATE OF BONE CHINA

The plate resting near
our kitchen sink became
her missile, as her hand
gripped bone china –
bone china from her
mother’s china closet;
what power – behind her
left hand with a twist
in her wrist she made
bone china fly – red roses
with delicate leaves flew
into thin air.

Bone china barely missed
his head and slams into
a wall covered in wanes
coating, above our radiator
near a box of Kleenex, and
a large magnifying glass: you
see, she hardly saw what she
was aiming at and if she
missed. . . it was a glass
framed clock, and her
favorite plant; a hanging
spider. Above the radiator,
bone china split into
smithereens – a few feet
from our green parakeet
hanging upside down,
clinging to a wire cage.

Our birds head bobbing
upside down. She never
tweeted on those days,
when mother did – but all
in all we knew, five mintues
would pass and mother
would be singing a Frank
Sinatra tune: Tweety now
on her swing, and I come
from behind my bedroom
door. In the fifties, it was
a mood swing..

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserverd
@ 2010