Zburlea Ariana

her body was a pear, one of the biggest pears. eyes painted deep into her head, baking powder tucked under her arms, strawberries in her cheeks. her story— a rancid pie with a fortune

When you arrived at my place you sat on the bed. I had no chairs; I ate standing because no one ever came to me. Dishes, forks, all in the singular. For a week, I drank my coffee there where

The oak in front is dripping its leaves on the window. Slowly. What am I supposed to do, Dad? I, too, search for water, to nourish my roots which I imagined so vividly - the two braids that

You can’t carry me on your back to touch the sun because I don’t have your eyes. Mom has brown eyes, you have brown eyes, the whole family has brown eyes like earth that absorbs water too

You peeled off the skin of the moon; now you have it powdered peachy from the sun. Teen sweat, like ginger tea. Your stubble has grown, A trace of charcoal spread on a sketch. You loved once

I carry water in my lungs, mother, pneumonia, they say. I broke my right hand into pieces, gave it to a hungry field rabbit— and its gaze bit me. My eyes shattered on my cheeks like seas