KVH/.

Rhubarb Crisp

Sunny afternoon, end of June.

I walk out onto the porch and sit

on the top step with a bowl in my lap.

I’m trying to mix red and green rhubarb

With sweet oats and brown sugar.

I can smell the cinnamon and butter.

My arms are getting tired.

I bite a raw slice of rhubarb,

its skin a ripe red but tart as a lemon.

My eyes tear up, I swallow quickly and

keep stirring. I remember

picking long stalks for pies from

my grandma’s yard as a kid, the same

summer cousin Ben fed his brother’s shirt

to a neighbor dog. We found the shirt hours later

in a pile of leaves on the side of the road.

After finding the shirt we all traipsed down to the tire

swing in the woods as if nothing had happened.