Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue One

Fernando Pérez


She stares out the car window. How the dirt between rows of orange trees sprint like legs alongside us. We are the many glasses of wine we drank: Shiraz, Sauvignon blanc. Air inside the car warms the blushed tips of her ears. She is short of breath, she knows better than to have eaten a handful of pistachios. She ignores her body, my hand sometimes reaching through silence, stopping short of the cushion between us. I stand in the orchards, listen to the sound oranges make when they let go, their skin torn open from the fall.