The kitchen floor is the color of whittled bone.
You hurl wine in the sink--on porcelain, a band
of red. I duck my head when the fluted glass is thrown.

Your voice turns like a broken carousel, hones
and splits the shards that rattle in my hand.
Strewn on a floor the color of whittled bone,

dividing again under your business shoes, blown
apart with your approach. I know you'd planned
for me to shatter when the fluted glass was thrown,

plotted for tears and pleading, but I am sewn
with stronger thread than that. My sovereign land
is this kitchen floor, the color of whittled bone,

its porcelain tiles thick and cool against my feet, hewn
into squares that steady me. I am not afraid to stand
against the force that shatters the fluted glass, thrown

by a hand that cannot imagine being left alone.
Between my fingers, glass ground back to sand.
A kitchen floor the color of whittled bone.
I raise my head as the next wine glass is thrown.