The old priest considered the cast-iron oil pot sitting in the corner of the immaculate kitchen. It was heavy, and his back hurt.
The trees growing on the canyon walls whispered to him. "Prepare
...
[+]
Originally published in The Berkeley Times
And still I'm traipsing through the fields
of wildflowers and grass and foxtails. Beyond
these fields are more fields and then more
and then the cloudless sky. Bees hovering
around coral-colored blooms, I make my way
to the river, crowned in clovers and briars,
hair more nest than hair, knees stained red
with scars. Pluck a peach from the tree rimming
someone's property and pulse it in my hand,
inhale the scent of its skin. I'm no good
at girlhood—worse yet, at being good.
Above, the moon swells in blue skies
and the cicadas keep screaming.
of wildflowers and grass and foxtails. Beyond
these fields are more fields and then more
and then the cloudless sky. Bees hovering
around coral-colored blooms, I make my way
to the river, crowned in clovers and briars,
hair more nest than hair, knees stained red
with scars. Pluck a peach from the tree rimming
someone's property and pulse it in my hand,
inhale the scent of its skin. I'm no good
at girlhood—worse yet, at being good.
Above, the moon swells in blue skies
and the cicadas keep screaming.