it is a good thing the boys have pockets and
we don’t:
we can run around the city shoving our fists
into their denim cavities and stealing every-
thing shiny, everything sharp.
and we walk away free, our petticoats drag-
ging through mud,
cheeks flushed and chests warm,
corsets stuffed with cash.
Of course persimmons aren’t trying to taste like apples or pears or a strange mix of the two, or like either of them. Being, tasting like...
We move as one, our bodies intertwine as we do a dance we’re all too familiar with. Your fingers wrap around my neck like a necklace,...
I leap along the sand in my salty, damp swimming costume. The beach is almost deserted and stretches longer than time. I am eleven years...
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