the tablecloth unfolds. the sun takes a deep breath
over the kitchen of our fifth-floor apartment.
you are in the shower. blueberries and raspberries
arranged on pancakes like constellations, coffee poured
into yellow mugs, english ivy vines trailing down the
cabinets like musical notes.
fresh watermelon juice on the counter.
one cup of sugar, grown out the ground like
sunflower stems. two cups starlight, collected in the
palm of your hands. stirred in a glass bowl until the
roses bloom and you can taste the piano trills.
at least that’s how my mother wrote it down.
she rests her leg on a broken stool, the kitchen swells
in the august heat. spanish moonlight and daydreams on
the record player, like memories. she wears an ice pack on
her head, a summertime bandana, fanning herself with
a dish towel. sliced mango on a paper plate.
another summer at the window.
that wall is where we hung vegetable ornaments and
wood carvings with twine. over there, attached by magnets,
wedding invitations and graduation photos. in every corner
there are blessings and fairies and the ceiling fan spins the
smoke out of our faces. its august and the curtains close.
rice boils on the stove like love.
REBECCA HERRERA is a strawberry-haired girl born and raised in New York. She received her bachelor’s in Art History and Museum Professions from the Fashion Institute of Technology and has two associate degrees in Visual Arts and English. She has had work featured in Small Leaf Press, Horse Egg Literary, Hecate Magazine, and others. She is currently the managing editor of fifth wheel press and lives in an apartment with her three plants, Orpheus, Eurydice, and Calliope.