Luis Zul

Up the steps teals I see with the texture of tiles, monumental bricks of clay from Teotihuacán weaved with cement of the sidewalks of North Oakland after my brief grocery trip. Leaves like petals ready to leave amber and citron carry through the wind orchestrated by mechanical gods and the lights at the crossroads before I get to go back home. My simple linen bag deceives me for an instant as it feels like it carries more than it lets on as if the avocado I bought in a whim is as heavy as my home-grown grief. Green and fleshy the memories are and the skin grows thick and the skin darkens and cracks for a moment these ovals weigh like cement and obsidian tied to my waist. The zoom of a car shreds my attention and all the ongoing shoppers wake from a dream all of us, woven together before now undone for the next goal to checkmark from our errand list. At the bottom of mine lies difficult rest and reprieve where I take the fruits from the depths of my heart, consume the nouris...