Persimmon Nights and Homemade Pies

By Arami Garcia


Right now I can hear music, unkempt, but still keeping a melody,

I suppose I hope that it’ll stay that way

and currently, I have friends,

I also hope that stays the same.


and on the darker nights,

when I reach out to the stars,

when they’ll quiver through the glistening blue fog,

I like to talk to the moon.

they tell me about the sun

and I tell them about what I hope for

for us

how I’ll see my friends,

and we’ll be eating homemade pies that taste quite good,

even if they didn’t bake quite right,

laughing, together, in our wobbly mismatched chairs

Talking all night and into the early, persimmon tinted morning hours


and then the sun will rise and the sky turns 

from persimmon to a glaring cobalt blue

and then I will sit in the notch of a tree

and I’ll converse with the sun.

they’ll tell me about the moon,

and I’ll tell them about how me and my friends talked a lot,

about what is real, and what is not

about everything, which is ultimately nothing

and I tell them that I would grin when they would gestures wildly

and accidentally slip and slap my face

but I hope that it will be like that forever

because it only ever makes me smile


I hope I’ll still have music

and trees with notches to climb

I hope that I can keep talking to the sun and moon

and that I can keep trying to properly make homemade pie

and right now being ourselves, together, is enough

so the biggest thing I hope for… is that it always stays that way