someone left the burner on. it wasn’t lit,
just gas filling a room slowly, in the hotel
over the pawn shop, where i live with fourteen others and
then some. we buy anything of value.
a boy and girl walk in with a large cardboard box of
dark frosted plums they picked from a friend’s tree.
her belly is big now, like the pumpkin in my garden
that we never planted; it grew on its own.
i don’t know how much longer she has. she wants
to have her baby in the teepee at the school house
on burnt fork road. its seam is held together with sticks, mostly sage.
it looks like a wound. once, i peeled back the flap and looked inside.
there was a red wheel barrow, a radio flyer, empty.
old things, worn down with soft
peeling edges feel good, like fitting
a button through the hole where it lives.
the boy strings his guitar. the wires are curled around the end
and i don’t want him to cut them off. i like them better that way
but i don’t say so. she slices the plums while he works. occasionally,
she asks for his advice. do you think this will be too gooey?
should i add more sugar? they forgot butter and we're out.
when i come back, the pie is on the counter, open faced. they want to make the crust
look like the one on the box-- cross hatched wavy lines. i look for the right utensil
but only find a pizza cutter. she uses a paring knife instead and decides
to make a mandala. i take a picture. she never looks up.
later, the pie is half eaten. i cover it in plastic wrap.
i haven’t seen them all day but there is a box of apples with a sign that says
for crisp. maybe i should make it, but i don’t want to.
the sunrise and sunset looked identical today. i saw both.
i wonder if the world has changed in the space between,
and how.
