Bad SeedI begged you not to go but you left me. I was drunk; it made no difference. We'd buried the apples, raked the ground with our fingers, left the fruit as it sang to the flies, lilting and dirty. Our parents were the birthplace of the exotic—they'd told us so little. Still, we knew what our mouths were good for, the sucking and the spitting. What we swallowed in private was always so much larger than expected. Jessica Plante is a Massachusetts native currently living in Tallahassee, FL where she works as a freelance web designer and grant writer. In 2009 she received her M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of North Texas. She is former Poetry Editor of The Greensboro Review and a recent graduate of the UNC-Greensboro MFA program. Her work has appeared in StorySouth, The Collagist, The North Texas Review, Tirage Monthly, Revolution House, and Zaum Literary Magazine. |