The utensils are screaming
again.
Rattling the handles on the
drawer.
If you listen closely,
You can hear the Clorox shrieking
from under the kitchen
sink.
It seems the hand soap has lost
its voice;
now it sits watching
the sponge tremble on the tile
countertops.

The sound of violet
circles the clock.
Five past seven,
The cuckoo says.
The vase your husband gave
You splits in two.
Family pictures swing on their hooks,
while his missing sock,
which was supposedly your fault,
is galloping down the stairs.
The “couple” pajamas from your mother
toss themselves out the second-story
window;
they didn't fit your growing stomach
anyway.
As the filing cabinet with his
work tosses drawers like an
accordion,
the scones you made this morning
are spoiling themselves green in the kitchen.
Your great-grandmother's
china tangos in the cupboard,
one step
two step.

Five past eight
the shaking stops,
the house is still.
Game boards stop spinning
as fake money flutters to the ground.
The house settles into itself,
the stairs fold up again,
cabinets close,
curtains swipe themselves shut.
The front door creaks open
as he steps out.
It slams shut,
shattering the stained glass front.
Five past eight,
the cuckoo says
all is well
all is well