I see his back when my eyes close: his hands,

swiftly ripping szechuan peppers from stem,

 

turning crimson skins to char. In the summertime, my

family turns soil into harvest, good farmers we are,

 

we pick fruits from trees until our hands are sore,

cramping with the pain of a thousand leaves. Broken,

 

I stand behind him, watch him drop red peppers

into the wooden basket. Creating bloody harvests.

​

The red spills over, rolling into the dirt. A score of red:

bright. bleeding. The burn never leaves my tongue.