Man Apologizes, But

An artistic journey through desire, nature, and isolation.

By Lydia Weinberger

She has learned how to wilt greens by watching
The way sweat cooks the grass stuck to her feet;
Wonders if that’s how it would taste to singe
Herself with an open-mouthed kiss: salty, sweet.

Discovered roasting beets as an artist
Mesmerized by how the juice stains her hands,
Partitions flesh to scarlet chunks of ink
Peers the earthy peels into rugged fans.

Craves the way leeks must be cleft apart;
Removing the grit like a mother cat,
The fur and fleas catch in her lungs and heart
Swallowed through her fingertips, burnt and flat—

She has learned to love her separate sphere,
How rosemary burns, the scent of it here.

Lydia Weinberger studied political science, studio art and creative writing. She graduated from UNC in 2021.