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About This Author
Guten tag! My name is Jessica and I'm 19 years old. I obviously love to write; I have been writing since I was six years old, but I became an avid writer in sixth grade. I also love listening to music and studying history. I am obsessed with Civil War, World War II, Russian, Romanov, German, and Norweigan history. I listen to mostly metal, some country, and grunge.
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See Something New #981935 added April 24, 2020 at 5:03pm
Restrictions: None
Brighton Beach Delights
And last but not least, our daily (optional) prompt! Today’s prompt is a fairly simple one: to write about a particular fruit – your choice. But I’d like you to describe this fruit as closely as possible. Perhaps your poem could attempt to tell the reader some (or all!) of the following about your chosen fruit: What does it look like, how does it feel, how does it smell, what does it taste like, where did you find it, do you need to thump it to know if it’s ripe, how do you get into it (peeling, a knife, your teeth), do you need to spit out the seeds, should you bake it, can you make jam with it, do you have to fight the birds for it, when is it available, do you need a ladder to pick it, what is your favorite memory of eating it, if you threw it at someone’s head would it splatter them or knock them out, is it expensive . . . As you may have realized from this list, there’s honestly an awful lot you can write about a fruit!
I'm seated on the porch, in the cool Brighton Beach shade,
away from the strong sun, I'm instantly swayed
by promises of gluten-free nightshade.
Since doing my DNA, I'm Russian, Polish, and Ashkenazi Jew,
Brighton Beach would be a chance to explore roots so new;
an enclave where English is second, giddy Russian coos.
I would try the borscht, made out of beets so sweet and red,
I wonder if it would taste like the jar, my hands bled;
or if the dill would be as pickly as mom said.
No, no, no, bread, I just want borscht, cold not hot,
and I begin to sip on my Sprite, send dad a lot
of photos of signs in Russian, a laughing bot.
Mid-sentence and the Russian man places a dish, a red slop,
looking like a bloody swamp, or muddied waters from mop,
mixed with sour cream, it didn't look a familiar crop!
I place my spoon in, and pile in the beets, onion, and dill,
into my mouth, sour cream and vinegar, my tongue's thrill,
scoop after scoop, the soup settles my stomach still.
I wipe the red juices dripping from my mouth,
staining my pale skin down south,
I'm held over until Sabbath. |
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