When you call me, I am testing avocados at the fruit stand, traffic blowing by behind me. I hope to ascertain if they were picked a few days early or left hanging on the branch for too long. If I do find one that feels just right, I must consider its origins. Is it from Northern Mexico? I’ve read that the cartel is running the avocado farms in Michoacan. Were any humans harmed in the making of this avocado? I listen as you explain why you can’t admit to your family that you’re getting an MFA. They will shit all over this dream. You’re sure of it. Because families manufacture secrets and shame for the dreams they themselves planted. I’ll tell no one about your poetry problem, I promise you. I imagine mashing the fresh green flesh of the dangerous fruit in my hand.
Thank you MacQueen’s Quinterly for including my work. I recommend checking out the whole issue--it’s jam packed with great writing.