sheets this crisp remind me
of my grandmother’s line and the way
neighbors were trusted
with delicates; did they ever close
their eyes, dream of clandestine
leaps over the fence, plucking
what wasn’t theirs, like oranges
or clementines
from the branch, staggering back
to bed, fingers sticky with juice
neck-nape tingling from the rush
the disbelief
of having gotten away with it
and yet, here it is, ripe
and ruthless.
—
Aubri Kaufman (she / her) is a poet and a trauma counselor from New Jersey. Her work has been published in HAD, Eunoia Review, The Daily Drunk, and elsewhere. She can be found on Twitter at @aubrirose.
Photography by: Erik Witsoe
