Bell Pepper

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,

                                    with all his face
            and his mustache

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


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.