I'm still writing poems about cauliflower.

I came here to write a story, but I wrote lists instead. Do you see the words I wrote in my notebook? purple, asylum, ice cream, universal. I hate good byes. When I am old, along with wearing purple, I will learn to paint. And I will paint oranges in wooden bowls illuminated by the sunlight. This day is supposed to be a feast. Full of sweet things and sturdy things, not sorrow. If I had girl I would name her Hazel because I think it is a strong name. I have poetry in my blood but I can’t get it out. I’m too afraid of what I’ll say. Or that it won’t sound like poetry at all. Or I’ll try too hard and it won’t sound like poetry at all.

How to (Not) Cook Cauliflower

The sun is setting. She sits in the grass under a most scraggly tree with ants crawling over her legs and children throwing dry grass in her hair. A man still mostly boy and his friend stands before her, tosses a bag of soggy cauliflower in her direction. A question for you, he says. How to cook this vegetable. Boil it, she says, not so hard. The translation takes far too long and the snickering far too much. You can help me. You can sit on the couch and watch the news and I will cook it. For you. The sun is setting, bringing relief from this hot July day. No, she says, half a laugh tucked between her teeth and panic simmering slightly under her skin. The sun is setting and it is time to go inside. She stands up as the man with the hat with his friend stomps off, dejected. The sun is setting. She takes confident strides towards the building with the four doors to unlock. A strong giggle rises in her throat to be let loose in the echo-ey stairwell, because what else is there but laughter? The sun is setting and the story is told and retold. Boil it, she says, it’s not so hard. Apparently there are connotations, euphemisms, Apparently cauliflower means less honorable things, as if going with him to cook his soggy cauliflower at night could ever be honorable. She has been taught to trust no man. It is wise advice. The last sun rays slip behind the horizon, laughter echoing this room. Because what else is there to do, but laugh?