I̾n̾ ̾U̾t̾e̾r̾a̾ ̾a̾n̾d̾ ̾I̾’̾m̾ ̾S̾u̾c̾k̾i̾n̾g̾ ̾o̾n̾ ̾C̾r̾a̾b̾a̾p̾p̾l̾e̾s̾ ̾W̾i̾t̾h̾ ̾P̾r̾i̾d̾e̾

Men choose to
write about fathers

when:
when they feel
baby feet pressing
against their balls

another cycle
passes
and
fruitless.
except for crabapples
who are always
said to be whining
or wet or coated in
makeup slough.
sometimes you learn
how to eat
them. Hear Them.
bitter like something
over-the-counter.
dries your mouth tart
sweet.

Men choose to
write about mothers

when:
when they begin
to kick – free
and into utera!

S̾t̾a̾r̾t̾ ̾o̾f̾ ̾M̾a̾r̾c̾h̾,̾ ̾2̾0̾2̾6̾ ̾o̾r̾ ̾A̾ ̾d̾a̾t̾e̾ ̾i̾n̾ ̾a̾ ̾n̾e̾w̾ ̾n̾o̾r̾m̾a̾l̾

One hundred fifteen
dead, but I got
a sushi date
lined up at
seven forty five
‍ ‍(trim fuck got
‍ ‍a reservation)
and I’m eating,
good.

That night, I am
wearing washed paleface,
stinking of vanilla and
degree,
and am five
inches taller than
this
man.

I wish
I must not always
think of height or
carpet bombs.

U̾n̾t̾i̾l̾ ̾a̾n̾ ̾o̾r̾a̾n̾g̾e̾ ̾t̾r̾e̾e̾

These oranges look and feel
like grandma titties
yet I eat
three of them.
I’m not sorry
for calling them
beautiful or
for flossing my
teeth with the flesh
strings that keep them together.

Backseat of a car
named Vanilla
is a seat
used for hypnosis,
and this babys got subs
that shakes the acidic shit out
from my stomach
to the top
of my throat.

Now,
I’m coughing up
orange teardrops
that everyone suggests
are seeds.
I will put a belt around
my throat
and pull and pop ‘em out
until an orange tree
takes up space.

Andrés López is an undergraduate writer studying English and Women & Gender Studies at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Andrés’s work covers intersection of queerness and Latinidad in America and beyond and has been published in Laurus Literary Magazine and Nude Bruce Review. He will be published in forthcoming issues of J Journal, Tough Poets Review, and Polaris. Andrés is now an editor for Laurus and will be editor-in-chief next year.