I marvel at my beet-stained pee. Called to the toilet, you humor me, wowing along as I linger over the bowl.
I didn’t know, hadn’t eaten one until you— you’d loved them since summers as a kid snapping beans
on your family’s farm, bored. The purple not-blood shade of red. The color I spent childhood hoping once. . . .
Explore Related Work: H. R. Webster Let’s make sugar, my father said. We began with the garden’s blank grid, measured out rows with tape and rod,…
Frank X Walker The unripe cherry tomatoes, miniature red chili peppers and small burst of sweet basil and sage in the urban garden…
Jenna Le Dear ——,
Last night, my mother asked me if
I’ll miss it: this New Hampshire town, its few
unhip, unfamous restaurants peripheral
to a town green unmown, untended to