by D. Dina Friedman
The zucchini blocks the doorway, but we make the escape, past the dog, through the pile of vegetables too woody to chew, and into the getaway car, which is bright and zucchini green. There’s no fence. Just a sign: red letters on sepia outlining prohibitions, the boundaries of the reservoir. We dive in quickly, our arms teeming with onions, imagining the tang of tomorrow’s water in our neighbors’ mouths, and in the dog’s dish, as police lights shimmer over our submerged heads, the sound of sirens muted in breathing bubbles, little onion scalps bobbing on the scrim of water that protect us from sight. Our toes scraping the mucky bottom, we wait for silence before dog paddling to shore.
It’s the onion we take turns pushing with our noses that makes me feel better about you, and the way you shred the parking ticket, salting it to feed the birds.
Musical composition by Friends of Uranium (live)