apricot season

By Kolbe Riney

My brother  

does not warn me  

when he outs me 

to our parents. 

The truth comes  

in whimpers  

from the kitchen,  

my chest proved flesh  

scalloped away  

with a paring knife,  

etching a heart  

ridged  

and tender  

as a stone pit  

to the soil 

in autumn. 

My grief  

is the apricot 

I plant  

in my best friend’s yard,  

asking him  

over my shoulder  

as the spade jumps 

if he believes  

it is only me 

who cries  

in coral,  

or if my brother  

cries, too. 

He shrugs, 

rests me 

until the snow comes, 

the comforter sliding white 

over my eyes 

while his mother  

boils jam  

in the kitchen, 

the sugar  

whispering 

from fruit 

and bloom 

comes something else.

In spring 

I drive to California,  

a gas-station bag of dried apricots 

sleeping on the seat. 

I snap the leather-soft skins 

with my tongue, 

and do not tell  

my brother  

my visit is for him.

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Kolbe Riney (she/they) is a queer poet and student based out of Tucson, Arizona. Her work is featured or forthcoming in several publications, including Penumbra Literary & Art Journal, Passages North, the West Trade Review, and others. Learn more: https://kolberiney.wixsite.com/website