Rosebud by Victoria Buitron
A gift from the twilight depths of our yard.
Recently Published
I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
A gift from the twilight depths of our yard.
You can imagine my disappointment, being stood up on a date surrounded by children, cotton candy, and parents drowning their misery in overly salted, buttered popcorn.
One time, she found an old spoon in my purse. I told her mommy likes to collect old spoons.
When I was sixteen, the year he went to prison, my lips were red and my cheeks sweet-smelling.
This is the part of the song where you wish you knew something about music theory