by Adam D. Week
I eat berries for breakfast in the morning, an orange slice
in four bites. I learn the lyrics to La Vie En Rose and Whatta Man,
teach myself to say romantic in a new language because everything is.
I collect all the shiny things I can—rings to turn me green,
pink wine glasses, heart-shaped dinner plates. I’m putting on
kitchen counter concerts for the cat, wiping up the sultriest
spills, languishing in the weight of my body between the laminate
and the kitchen sink. At night I’m trying on the entire closet
just to let the mirror see. I’m in bed bathing in blue light
like it’s made for me. When a man offers me his apple
at lunch, I let him hold my hand between his and the knife. I let him
teach me to peel the skin—one long, curly strip—like it’s my first time.
Adam D. Weeks has a BA in Creative Writing from Salisbury University and is currently a second-grade teacher in Baltimore City. He won the 2022 Third Wednesday Poetry Contest, has been a Pushcart Prize nominee, and has poetry published or forthcoming in Fugue, Poet Lore, Poetry South, Sugar House Review, Sweet: A Literary Confection, Sycamore Review, and elsewhere.
Hawaii Pacific Review 