It was a wonder the neighbors didn't complain. And I know it's irrational, maybe even paranoid, but I imagined the old guy upstairs must have heard me crying lately and was mocking my ... [+]
Originally published in The Berkeley Times
And still I'm traipsing through the fields of wildflowers and grass and foxtails. Beyondthese fields are more fields and then moreand then the cloudless sky. Bees hoveringaround coral-colored blooms, I make my wayto the river, crowned in clovers and briars,hair more nest than hair, knees stained redwith scars. Pluck a peach from the tree rimmingsomeone's property and pulse it in my hand,inhale the scent of its skin. I'm no goodat girlhood—worse yet, at being good.Above, the moon swells in blue skiesand the cicadas keep screaming.