“Apples” was just an exercise to see if I could write a five-line poem without metaphor or hyperbole, except for in the final line.
On a lazy Sunday afternoon in spring, what appeared was a hankering for pie. And, though I did not realize it at the time, the recipe I baked to satisfy my craving would teach me so much about where I came from, and where I was headed.
Fresh Fruit, Broken Bodies describes the physical pain and emotional suffering that Triqui migrant workers routinely face during their work in the West Coast berry fields
- Waiting for a Cappuccino: A Brief Layover along the Spice Trail
As I wait for my cappuccino, I subconsciously but quite mechanically begin to play with the salt and pepper shakers on the vinyl tablecloth—pairing them off as ballroom dancers across the checkerboard design, then transforming them into charging bull and lithesome matador.