The pitcher of water
          stained with lemons,
                    thrown across the room—

I have no patience
          with hysterical women,
                    but I do admit

I was afraid—
          seemed to meet
                    no genteel resistance

with the table, the floor,
          the sharp edges
                    of the white stucco wall.

If it could have remained
          thrown forever,
                    without landing

or consequences,
          never breaking into a puddle
                    of glass shards

commingled with pith
          and rind in a place
                    far west of Eden...