Neyow’s Fruit Punch
Vibrant red, the color of oblivion.
The color of that kid’s backpack.
Schools out. A bell rings through the brain.
Across the street from the kindergarten,
armed men defend bronze symbols.
Above, snakes dangle from oak trees,
their red tongues slithering across
the sky. I’m in the backseat, slumped.
Sipping 32oz of fruit punch, mixed with light & dark
liquor. At this rate, I might not make it. The clouds
storm through my empty stomach. A voice
sings America, please take my hand. The car door
opens & my foot finds the floor—only to tumble.
Hands stretched, searching for absolution.
It’s a mysterious shade of red.
Fruit punch has no fruit in it.
Copyright © 2024 by Kortney Morrow. Used by permission of the author.
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This article appears in Aug 28 – Sep 10, 2024.

