Impossible apology

The man sitting in front of me wears a Multnomah County Fair t-shirt. He has light eyes and an auburn beard and speaks intensely. Our knees touch as he offers me freshly sliced apples on a red plastic plate. Their fragrance wraps around us like a cloud and I struggle to focus on the questions I am asking him about how his brother's eye came to have a pellet in it. He offers the apples once again as I leave, gently mocking: "They're not dirty." I smile weakly and pick two pieces and a whole apple and my mouth waters as my stomach knots with an impossible apology for my country, occupying his.

KEEP GROUNDED

Faded pink high-tops sit like flower pots, adorning the center of the apartment.  In each, a yellow or a blue sock blooms with frills and improvised folds; laces, dirty and frayed, blend as they reach into the carpet.

STILLNESS

"There's plenty harm to be had in a few drinks," he said—the ash protrusion struggling to grip the end of his embering cigarette between the plosive push and the cryptic grin—to nobody in particular.

I resent you most

I resent you most when you are gentle because it destroys the framework I have built to accommodate your cruelty.

I GAVE HER A PIECE OF ME

I gave her a little piece of me and asked her to be kind.  She held it between her forefinger and thumb, and squished it like a bug.

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