The Morning after an Argument

I stare at the clogged sink,
rescue stained plates, stacking them
as they drip on the counter.
An internet search tells me to bail
water from the red sea of sudsy tomato
paste and scorched sunflower seeds.
I empty the whole sink, as curled
onion peels swirl in my bowl, and fall
in a splash onto the frozen garden ground.
I try everything with baking soda and vinegar.
I wait for the drain to clear again,
gurgling up cold spaghetti, speaking again,
until I can fill the sink with golden soap,
soak my hands until they are harmless,
and listen for that still, small pop
across constellations of bubbles
that will gently disappear until
you and I are clean.