Alexis Kruckeberg
He offered it
like a bowl to sip, yellow
and crisp
and freshly halved.
The pairing knife’s wooden
handle was black with age,
but the blade
had to be
sharp to make the cut.
He’d rolled the pepper
in his hands
and then it was in two.
The seeds inside, white
and overlapping, were
tightly packed
in rows up the core.
Exotic to a five-year-old
is a bell pepper.
It was candy yellow,
but seeds? Which part
do you eat?
He took a bite like
Mr. Wonka
and his flower petal cup,
chewing
with all his face
and his mustache
wiggled
with a small smile
at the taste.
I took it
with both hands, tilting
it, not sure about
the smell.
I saw seeds
sliding in the curve
and licked the wet cut.
Bite it, mija. Bite.
Return to Spring Issue Volume 11.2
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 going back to Mexico. Her poetry has appeared in Into the Void, Qu Literary Magazine, CALYX, and others.