By Elel Heedles

The building in the sun
across the street
is covered in lines.

My grocery list is full
of Castlebrites and sugars.
There are seasons to this.

I trust the lines that hold
the fruits, the lines of my room,
my body. There are

as many windows as there are ways
to make do. Through each glass
a woman stands at the stove.

Her name is Carla, and she’s waiting
for the stores to open.
It’s late. The chill on my skin

doesn’t bother me. For once
I leave the window ajar
overnight, to start anew

tomorrow. Berries
erase themselves
from the leaves.