Samantha Blysse Haviland
Pineapples in December
In the winter when my lips are chapped
I suck them into my mouth and bite off
the skin. Then I fill a bowl from the cafeteria
with pineapple and eat it out in the snow.
My ass gets wet and cold. The fruit soaks
into my gums. After, I bury my face
in the ground, and inhale snow
to help wash away the acidity. In war,
meteorologists help the army decide when
to attack—I guess the phrase rain or shine
is more complicated when the stakes are dead
bodies on New Year’s. I go back
to the cafeteria and drink five cups
of coffee. I am not tired. Or I am
not tired in the way one is usually tired.
The pineapple wasn’t fresh, but it’s December—
what do I expect? I fill the coffee with more sugar
and cream than my friends deem acceptable
but they are busy fighting their own battles
with algebra teachers and boys and drug
store iPhone chargers. They left me
to hold down the fort. Later, when my mouth
starts to bleed, I balance ice cubes
on my tongue and let them drop into
the sink. My laptop is open, propped up
on the toilet seat. There is a coloring book,
ramen, and a 13-ounce tub of Vaseline
in my Amazon cart. I am preparing
for a siege. I stare at the weather app on my phone
hoping that when the snow stops, my friends
might come back. The walls of my mouth bend
around the ice. The cold is just starting.
Samantha Blysse Haviland, originally from New York, is a high school senior studying Creative Writing at Interlochen Arts Academy in Northern Michigan. She has been published in the Interlochen Review.
