I opened the cabinet where all the plates were

They were all the same color and shape

with the same cracks and chipped paint

 

One by one I threw them all onto the ground

until they shattered into oblivion

 

I gathered some of the scraps and cradled them like a baby,

glued some back together,

and told them it was going to be okay,

that I had been crushed by the foot of a giant too

 

But when I woke up,

there were no plates

Or bowls, or cups, or forks, or spoons

 

So, I dug a hole in my bed and sank into it, deeply,

landing in the grass, sprinkled with dew

No twinkle of stars, no sunshine or snow,

no bird wings flapping or frogs croaking,

or busy highways or empty neighborhood streets

 

A bitter-sweet orange lay next to my arm

 

It was bruised too, and a little soft

I dug my nails into its stomach and clawed its insides out

and devoured it monstrously and unforgivingly

 

But then I remembered the plates

Did they belong there? In that cabinet all these years?

 

But when I woke up,

I was in my bed

And the plates were downstairs,

in the cabinet,

where they belonged