That Night

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By Dianne Moritz

That night darts of glass
stung the scuffed linoleum.
All around red wine dripped,
staining the chipped walls.

I choked out bitter words,
ransacked our cupboards:
dinner plates exploding,
ineffective grenades.

You stood, watching …
holding yourself.
Silent.

           
Dianne Moritz writes to make sense of life and love.

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