Col Morada

What it’s like when I hand her the
dark green with red buckshot
heavy, gourd-like, brutalist
object with one fool’s ear flapping
and she takes the machete
a wide grin from the apex of all
the vegetables, and then she is
holding the two halves -
.............................................Cuál quiere?
and I point
with a stake in my heart for the
one left behind, purple and
white furrows radiating
from a gasping stem what I want
for them is to be together,
again, but am aware that once
severed, we will not return to our original

it was much more beautiful
than I had thought and better
than I deserved, only it wasn’t
what I once glimpsed, and lost.

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"Col Morada" - Red Cabbage
words: Rose Hunter, Mexico (blog)

note: Rose Hunter is the editor of the new poetry journal YB (guidelines), submissions are open.

missing part

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image: Brigita Pavsic, Slovenia (soul flowers)

Retired Widow

Each evening, the
piano plays her fingers,

on keys that’d open
the night beyond

twelve. Once in, skies
expand remembered

days, after lighting
cigarette at the porch.

Its burn is long on him,
restores ashes, years

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words: Michael Caylo-Baradi, California (more)