her bedroom window overlooks the plastic
greenhouse her father procured for a hundred
dollars at a local store. She hates the greenhouse;
hates his home grown tomatoes, yet she loves
her mother's strawberry and blueberry bushes that
litter the porch – the concrete is speckled, and cracked
from the last big earthquake when all of the leather-bound
classics fell from the bookcases in great waves onto
the fuzzy carpet.


her window is a neo-primeval cage, she can no
longer opening it for the rust of so many years
lacing red tendrils along the frame, she dreams of
apple and rose colored stained glass, though she
settles for the sunrise opening and leggy through
the foggy archway. She is cherryblossomish,
shadowy all year but one honey-colored week
late in spring when she glows white and
full, lethargic after the first hard rainfall, you
can smell her from your open car door, or
hear her sway as you sneak past the sidewalk
into the woods where younger girls
made tree forts in the swamp – she could see
them from the same view of her bedroom, but
they never asked her to join them.

She is defined nowadays as being a woman
refined and cultured, her bitter taste does not
bother the strangers who pluck her gilded fruit;
take her into their mouths and bite down harder
each year – it matters not to her, she gives birth to
herself yearly, flowered, harvested:

disenchantedly mesmerizing all the same.