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 I 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 croaking frogs,
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.
My shadow was leaning against the house with them inside.
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.