Alina Zollfrank πŸ”ˆ


She stood in her kitchen
(ponytail tight, lips tighter),
talked to herself to no one in
particular, to no one who’d

listed out loud whether
this avocado was a good egg or
a bad seed. So hard to tell

with avocados. She gave it a
feel. Placed it back in the window
sill. Or not. Maybe attempted

a sniff. A gentle squeeze. Talked some
more to the air to dimpled apples to flies
in the compost (feet mired in plushy
lead slippers).

A lunge for the blunt knife. The first
cut across rough skin & she could tell
smooth linden half-moon from

glossy pit. Twisted parts, soft flesh through
and through. Or not. Sometimes she
broke open into a wide valley,

popped the seed to find choking
ropes & flecks of ugly & gray matter of
rot. In silence she’d toss it – fruit

that had once held fistfuls, worldfuls
of promise. Now, out loud, her vow
to never try again.

Author Reading

About the Author

Alina Zollfrank, from the former East Germany, loathes wildfire smoke and writes to get out of her whirring mind. She cares for two teens, a husband, three rescue dogs, and countless plants in the Pacific Northwest and finds inspiration in the lightness and heaviness of this world. Her essays and poetry have been or will shortly be published in Bella Grace, The Noisy Water Review, Last Leaves, Thimble, The Braided Way, Wordgathering, and Invisible City. Find her on Medium @zollizen..