by Ivy Rozen
This poem was originally published in Hot Pot Magazine.
We ate avocados
on toast, in salads, with chips.
We craved their pits.
We saved them in
venti plastic cups, logo fading
but my mom’s misspelled name
remained in Sharpie.
Tap water, lukewarm:
only fill it half-way.
Stab the heart with wooden stakes
to hold it up, hold it steady
in the middle of the sea.
Some years it sprouted.
We cheered and hoped it was a sign,
but eventually it’d always die
before we could get it in the ground.
We ate avocados
on empty graves.
Category: Featured, Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU Student