Jillian Merriweather. “Certain Red Things.”
I
The blaring cry of the alarm
abruptly pulls Tatum out of her sleep
the siren jarring in her ears,
momentarily disorienting but only for a moment
“T, you betta be getting ready!”
She hears the voice of her sister, Payton, from their shared bathroom
“You don’t want Ma to come up here!”
Tatum flies like a bird out of her bed
nearly tripping over her gym bag
Crap.
She forgot there was a volleyball game today
As if there is a fire lit beneath her,
throws herself through her morning routine,
trading casual barbs with PayPay, as she calls her.
When I move you move
just like that
Stand Up by Ludacris plays from the radio
Ready in record time,
she passes her parents on her way to the kitchen
where a full breakfast is waiting on the table.
Mónica Tapiarené. “Flora no vende flores en el mercado de agricultores Martínez/Flora Doesn´t Sell Flowers at the Martinez Farmers Market.”
Spanish
Flora no vende flores. Vende bruselitas, camote japonés y anaranjado, habas en mayo, y zapallos en octubre.
Flora no regala flores. Regala sonrisas al ver la gente pasar. Le compren o no le compren bruselitas o camote o lo que sea al azar.
Sonríe con las arrugas alrededor de los ojos, grietas profundas como los surcos de la tierra arada y cosechada.
English
Flora doesn’t sell flowers. Sells brussels sprouts, Japanese yams, sweet potatoes, fava beans in May, and pumpkins in October.
Flora doesn’t give flowers. She gives smiles as people pass her stand. Whether or not they buy her brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes or whatever.
She smiles with the wrinkles of her eyes, deep cracks like the furrows of the plowed and harvested earth.
On The Edge 
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