By: Jordan Papula

Stretching sticky-sweet
         mornings soaked in
                  pineapple sunlight, strawberry silence,
green grass growing days.

In those days we
napped in our peach pit penthouses,
wondered where we’d be next year
(they told us we could be anything)

or we

wandered the apple orchard
with blueberry stained braces
and cherry pie smiles
(aren’t we American?)

Until plum twilight, porch lights
                       left on led us home to
        crash on cantaloupe couches,
soft seeds promising life.