Standing at the kitchen sink washing sweet potatoes,

I look out the window past the old scratched soda bottles

rescued from the wusband. They say “Dream. A little bit of

sunshine in every sip.” Dream. Dream of suprificious

relationships that you want to peel. Peel away sadness.

Peel away distress. Just peel away like the fasted car at late

night street races. My skin is rubbed raw. My knuckles

punched through limitations as if they were jets breaking

sound barriers. I will eat these barriers, barf them up, and

bury them, I will grow sweet beets beneath. I will use beetroot

juice to conjure love spells. Do you understand? Do you

see the nature beneath? Do you want to join me? We can

fly out the kitchen window over the gingko tree and

perch on the sick cedar dripping sap from broken

pine cones. Will you have a sip with me? An afternoon

aperitif of sorrow. - in grandma’s chipped crystal