apology fruit
her pruned hands tremble,
milky, salt tears curdling and
dampening the crushed
blood oranges
beneath her stained fingertips
with calloused,
weathered fingers
she offers
me cold-cut
plums from
the cracked, plastic
cooler
they’re her
apologies i think, as
i squeeze the
plump, purpled flesh
until juice slicks
my pink palms
and
when the refrigerator lights
flicker on, I taste
the dampness of her
regret
it’s my mother’s
language,
the clean slice of
her kitchen knife
filling the
silent spaces between
my ribcage
but the ripe
fruits do not
fill the sweet void of
“i’m sorry”
milky, salt tears curdling and
dampening the crushed
blood oranges
beneath her stained fingertips
with calloused,
weathered fingers
she offers
me cold-cut
plums from
the cracked, plastic
cooler
they’re her
apologies i think, as
i squeeze the
plump, purpled flesh
until juice slicks
my pink palms
and
when the refrigerator lights
flicker on, I taste
the dampness of her
regret
it’s my mother’s
language,
the clean slice of
her kitchen knife
filling the
silent spaces between
my ribcage
but the ripe
fruits do not
fill the sweet void of
“i’m sorry”
About the Author
Robina Nguyen (she/her) is a Toronto-based student and the current Editor-in-Chief of The Outland Magazine. Her work is featured or forthcoming in Shameless Magazine, Ambré Magazine, The Los Angeles Times, Disobedient Magazine and West End Phoenix among others. She loves to paint, haunt local bookstores and argue about the Oxford comma.