I have wanted to destroy things.
Throw eggs, one by one, into a broad tree
even I won’t miss. I want to hear the shell
burst, see the broken yolk drip-shine against bark.
In fantasies I buy every plate in Goodwill
and bring them home to smash
against my stained concrete driveway.
Hurl arch shatter, every plate I found
in Goodwill, every plate I placed in my cart
and hauled to my trunk. I want to shoot
things. Pumpkins, maybe. Finger to trigger
to a gaping exit wound, sticky pulp
and seeds blasted out over my front porch.
I have no gun. I have no pumpkin.
What I have is this apple, glowing red
and round in the palm of my hand.
What I have is this knife, sharp enough
to slice the thin dusky skin of the fruit,
sharp enough to carve its white flesh.
What I have is precision, what I have
is a plate full of apple slices
to take outside to my children.
Emry Trantham is an English teacher in Western North Carolina, where she is raising three daughters and writing poems. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Booth, Tar River Poetry, Carolina Quarterly, Noble Gas Qtrly, Cider Press Review, Cold Mountain Review, and others. She was also a 2019 Gilbert-Chappell Emerging Poet.