I say, think of the cherries
on the wooden shelves out front,
the rosy apricots still sour from the winter.
Do you remember,
grandpa trekking in the dwindling heat of summer,
splitting an orange open for our little hands?
I say, think how nice you’ll feel
at the table with fresh berries and ice water
but you’re not listening.
I say, let’s practice pumping air,
into our pockmarked lungs, quit squeezing!
our heart with all that shallow gasping.
Do your eyes ever stop darting, desperate
for excuses to hide inside?
Are you scared, little girl,
of the Big City?
Here, I say, put on your shoes.
I listen to you snivel
all the way down 18th avenue.
Disobedient child, sloppy snot.
I want to make excuses to everyone who passes us
but no one is looking.
The old men outside of Villabate,
the kids showing off their light-up sketchers,
don’t hear your twitching, tumbling thoughts,
your cataloging of our heart beats.
Do you need your hand held,
little girl? Will you cry
if the store is crowded, a cacophony of eyes
pecking at your apricot-thin skin,
sucking on your embarrassment.
There is just so much to laugh at—
look at how you struggle with that plastic bag,
look at how your eyes dart, searching for the registers.