the plates are older than either of the other relationships

at the table. intermixing steel and coffee colors at the edges,

the centers bear jagged lines, cut by the silver scars

of two decade’s worth of knives. not unlike a marriage—

a brief sonnet of a union, the last couplet of which strains

to find the feet to end it. everyone knows and tries to laugh

regardless. we talk of dishware, agreeing that none of us 

had the room or inclination for fine china. pragmatists all

when we married, we refused to register for anything

we had no use for. anything we were unwilling to keep up by hand.

none of us speak about our fear that they break so easily, 

shattering unless we wrap them and hide them away.

still, one of our old sturdy plates cracked the other day, I said.

like it or not, we will have one fewer place at the table.