AuthorBalakian, Peter

My mother hovered over the staked vines, the sweet fuzz of pale green stems. By August the heavy air leaned on them. When the sky cracked with lightning the stakes held the rain and the fat beefsteaks swelled. On a chopping board, I ran a serrated knife across their thin skin for thick slices; water poured from the pulp and seeds-- of the quadrants-- Whatever churned out there in the news of irradiated rice paddies, the burning white streets of America, whatever hurricane was coming up from the unknown waters...

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