Blueberry Pearl

I can never forget the honeycrisp apple jacket I wore on February eighteen the dripping modest flower sleeves and the pull of the easy zipper up to my chin and the way it kept me warm when the sky was stuffed with damp cotton and the way the grass looked so verdant without the white…

Nobody knows the names of the people who tend to the pretty flowers guarded by the sinew-haired nymph in the delicate plant nursery in Los Angeles.  Nobody takes note of which of the various moon-haired women that pace through the moss-bitten floor with dragonfruit gloves and plum-slice aprons, Nobody stares at the scalloped buckets and…

Summer is hot and eye-straining and mucous-y, Only thing that makes it bearable is the blushing peaches and fertilized orange trees and the sweet vanilla cake dresses that get hung on my shoulders and the way my hair curls like they’re real. Summer is boundlessly idealized by the shimmering, inebriated, and itchy image of it,…

The beloved boy with the jade eyes, Ángel, somehow concocted a way to grow spring flowers among the snow-pelted winter ground, an enigma which captivated the whole overcast town. Winter was an enchanted spirit, yet sharp and strict when she had to be. She was the center of attention and never bent down for any…

The piglet is a phantom rose shade like a ribbon drenched in his cold-scorch sun buttermilk and his mother is a nearly frosted fuzz speckled with rain clouds on her sweat-stained pelt, the piglet looks into his mother’s sappy eyes and nestles closer to her gleaming snout, he squeaks like a tin can and his…