Read More: A brief Q&A with Alexis Kruckeberg
Green Onions
A short glass with root ends of green onions is our center piece. They are on the baked potatoes on our plates, and the green is under more than one of my fingernails. You think it’s silly to keep re-growing them this way. I wouldn’t know that if we’d chosen to eat from our knees on the couch instead of the table, and I couldn’t have guessed you’d say anything about them, but I’m glad for it. You thumb the cut end of one and I think about that thumb on my hip, but talk about how one day you’ll have to help me with a real garden. You look up and nod, tell me soon. We finish our meal and each other, and fall asleep smelling like green onions.
All The Ways I Mangled My Hands Waiting
Tuesday, November 3rd, 2020
The muscles of my right cramped with
my grip on the mandolin. I
pricked my left palm with a paring
knife. I shaved two tiny discs from
the skin of my thumb knuckle with
a box grater. They were lost in
butter. I used hot sugars to
burn my collarbone and forearm
in splatters but spared both my hands
until I could palm the hot plate,
holding it, knowing burns will come.
All the ways I mangled my hands
have let me bake an apple pie
and there is vanilla ice cream.
Subscribers can read all our publications by logging in. |
Making Dinner
Music plays, and you turn
a pepper grinder
over onions and carrots.
The heat is enough
to keep the butter hot,
but not brown—practice
with the stove and the pan
to not sweat too fast.
Your lover plays
a song you both claim […]
Subscribers can read the full version by logging in. |
Alexis Kruckeberg received her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Minnesota State University, Mankato. She tends to cook more food than is necessary and daydreams about traveling to Mexico. Her poetry has appeared in Barely South Review, Qu Literary Magazine, CALYX, and others. Alexis’ chapbook received first runner-up in the Chestnut Review 2021 Poetry Chapbook contest.
Read More: A brief Q&A with Alexis Kruckeberg