Khakis are good
But don’t try the pine cones
By Emma Diaz Pease
Is what my mother once said
During one of our late summer dinners.
When the sky would turn a
Blazing orange
And the forest of our yard would deepen
Into a dark pine green…
When cicadas would slow their drone
To something like the neverending sound of the
A far away raging sea…
When the khakis and figs would turn ripe,
The quick mice, and cunning opossums
Would come at night,
And ravage the delicacies whole.
But that was when we
Had enough.
That was when I
Had a mother
That would tell me to save the
Khakis for others.
Or collect the pine
Cones.
There was always enough
With her.
But she left last year when
The figs got ripe.
We’re still doing the late summer
Dinner this year.
And as I bite into the first khaki
And the horizon cries clouds of
Pinks and red
The fruit in my mouth tastes bittersweet
And I have to look down
To check that it isn’t a pine cone
