The summer I moved to Berkley, I got a job
selling insurance door-to-door.
I’d walk through the winding lines
of pastel Dollhouses, not knocking, not selling,
just looking at all those families
that were not mine. Living a those lives
I’d never have.
In California there are huge grapefruit trees
right in peoples front yards.
For lunch, I picked the fruits off the sidewalk
and carried them to the little Spanish parks
with their rickety, ancient gazebos
and yelling children. I’d sit cross-legged in the grass
and split the pink flesh with my bare hands
devouring it like a heart.
That was the summer I wanted him to marry me so bad
I told everyone he asked when he didn’t.
I’m not saying that’s why I left.
The not saying doesn’t make it
The juice spilled over my hands so carelessly
it felt like betrayal. No one ever yelled at me for stealing.
Some things grow so easily
they demand to be given away.