Annie Schumacher

I throw a pile of plates at a pile of wood beside the pomegranate tree. The porcelain cracks against the logs. Some split like bird bones, others take a few shots. Poor never-breakfasts. Poor gifts of givers and cedar chest relics. I'm fine. I'm nothing. I get more plates from the box. They pop and lurch off the logs. Their damage is flung about. Then there's the cereal bowl with the leaping deer. I bought it when we moved into our first apartment. It is put aside. I sigh and stoop to pick up the mess. My hands get all dusty. Not wanting the dogs to step on the pieces, I get them all. Small, big, sharp, dull. This takes a long time. Longer than breaking them. The shards are heaped into some brown paper bags, which become too heavy for me to carry. My partner tosses them in the dumpster next to the bulldozer. The ceramic pieces mix into my parent's rotting leftovers, where they will wait until Thursday, Garbage Day. I feel nothing. We sit by the pond and smoke something, or drink something.