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Plate of Bone China

A 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;
delicate leaves flew into thin air.
Bone china barely missed
his head – slams into a wall covered in wanes
coating – above a radiator near a box of Kleenex next to
a large magnifying glass: she never knew what she
was aiming at – if she missed
as piece of china split into smithereens – a few feet
away – our parakeet hung upside down,
clinging to a wire cage –
‘Tweetie’ never bobbed its’ head on those days;
five long minutes went by and she smiled, began to
sing a song by Frank Sinatra –
I came out from behind my bedroom door –
they called it – mood swings.

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