The first fruit I ever stole
came from an old man I don’t know the name of.
I know he couldn’t move
from his La-Z-Boy by the front window.
I know how his gravelly voice boomed across the yard
as he scolded me for taking peaches from his tree.
I don’t know why he cared.
I know my sister would smile when I brought them home.
And I know my brother had this habit—
biting only one side
until he reached the pit.
I don’t know what happened to the old man,
but I know the peaches started something bigger.
I know I later became a thief—
but also had this habit
of giving people fruit when they’d come over.
I don’t know if the old man knew my name,
or if he just called me the brat who stole his peaches.
I know they cut down that peach tree
when I was in ninth grade.
And I know
I’ve never had a peach so sweet
as the ones from the old man’s tree.

Oh, what a joy it must be
to be a magnolia
planted along the city street,
to be met each and every night
by beautiful passing faces
under the twinkling city light.

Oh, what a blessing it must be
to be a dragonfly,
gliding on delicate wings
over the land, eternally free,
listening as every bird sings.

Oh, what a pleasure it must be
to be a summer cloud,
basking in the sun’s glory,
wearing sunshine like a shroud.

Oh, what a grand thing to be
a tree in a meadow,
holding a swing.

Oh, what a great thing to be
alive in the sun.

Oh, what a perfect thing to be!

the kitchen is a mess darling
and right now so am i
unfurled by your words
like a spool of yarn
pulled from the center
you pull me in closer
your eyes glisten
like the glasses on the table
empty now, lipstick on one edge
as you pull me to the counters edge
your hushed whispers like rain
falling on the roof in a summer storm
gentle, provoking me toward magic
your breath lingers on my lips
like wine and saffron
your touch warm
like a shot of bourbon
pull me in closer
closer still
one of these messes
will just have to wait

That morning when I’d first heard of your departure,
I cursed the sun—how dare it beam through my window,
how dare it attempt to warm my skin?

I was filled, for just a moment,
with a rage I couldn’t swallow,
as I picked mulberries
and their juice stained my quivering lips.

Birds sang at your funeral—
their songs couldn’t drown out your father’s grief.
The same birds I’d spend months shooing away
from the fresh soil where you were laid.

For weeks, as I’d drive to work,
I’d spew hatred at the stars—
scattered so carelessly in front of me.
They mocked my loneliness with their togetherness.

I hate that you’re gone.
I hate that I know
that the stars would go on shining without me, too.

You cut down the forest, tree by tree
to build another villa.
Cut the heads from each blade of grass
to keep in accordance with regulation.
Cut the thorns from the rosebush
to keep it pretty, defenseless.
Cut down the dandelion
to make it easier to breathe;
once medicine, now just a ****.
Cut the boys’ hair short,
cut the girls’ wings shorter,
to make for the perfect family photo.
Cut the native tongue from the migrant’s mouth
to create cohesion in culture.
Cut the stillness of the night
to make way for off-ramps and neon lights.
Cut your health below expectation
for a paper check, riddled with taxation.
Cut your love close
to save yourself some heartbreak.
Cut that which does not serve,
as long as you continue to serve.
Keep cutting away
and calling it progress.

I’m awakened with fluttering eyelids,
warmth already draped over me—
tendrils of light reaching,
bursting into every gap they find.
Beckoning me closer,
into the bright,
basking in the touch
that leaves spots on my skin
where I’ve been kissed too much.
A little note for down the road.
We flirted too long, but did so with ease.
Now I’m left in an ever-blushing state!
Oh! The Sun is such a tease!

What a noble thing it is,
to leave a blossoming flower to bloom—
maybe plucking a leaf or two
to give growing petals precious room.

As you stroll past the blooms each day,
you encourage their budding hues.
Their fragrance greets you,
hugging you in their delicate perfume.

Soon a familiar chill meets you;
and a familiar grief settles within you.
As the blossoms wilt,
your steps grow slower,
hoping to cling to just a moment of color.

Soon to be surrounded
by Death and Decay,
even if only for a while—
Pondering an earthly truth,
as true as the birds sing:
Nobody gets to keep
a beautiful thing.