I marvel at my beet-stained pee. Called to the toilet,
I didn’t know, hadn’t eaten one until you—
on your family’s farm, bored. The purple not-blood
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 / just outside the window. . . .
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 
Menu 
