Salad in Suburbia
The pitted date unfolds like a broken cicada skin. Whirring and helpless memories of old houses stunt the burn of lemon juice finding the cracks in my skin; traveling through canals of age. I’ve been here for thirteen years. I’ll be here for thirteen more. Cilantro stems like spindly locust legs unfurl over parsley and pistachio; cling to smooth Pyrex. Food fills a space once lushly loved yet now untouched. In the bowl, it seems, the insects emerge winged and intoxicated; dripping lemon and sherry; glistening oil; sustaining pristine cithara string notes. Ache is all there can be no matter what the species. We sing these songs so long that we die and never notice.
Dear Suburbia 