Homemade raspberry-eyed jam
of running through the apple trees,
And the possibility of a haircut.
Rubber boots peek round the corner
watching for a five-cent tomato fatboy.
The grapefruit sun
was split in two
so that we could share the pink flesh,
Our white hands dripping juice.
Ask James what his mom cooks;
he says “toast.”
the apple-cider laughter
from under the cutting board.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.