I bought myself a pineapple in December.

Without thinking, plunked it in the basket.

It wasn’t on sale.

It wasn’t particularly colorful

or fragrant.

It was mostly unripe—

Bright green, like bamboo,

With a foreshadowing of yellow.

creation made co-heir,

questioning

how do I speak of glory

in this foreign land?

Where is our thrill of hopeWe have already been downtroddenWeeping on our kneesWe are weary, Lord

Series of poems by Mickey Beatima.

I’ve made peace with the tenuous understanding that we have. I’m scared of imagining a relationship with my family that’s not fraught with shame and misunderstandings.