top of page

If you asked,

by Julia Maria Ortiz

Photograph credits: "busy bee" by Vanessa Maki

If you asked,

my dear,           I would

eat the


of tulips



fit one into

my mouth and              snip

with my teeth.


I would lick



the pollen

from the center,


feel the skin- soft,

silk          -           soft



spreading layers

over my smile.


When I grin at you,

my mouth would be

yellows and reds and     oranges.


And then I would chomp

the brightness to bits.     If

you asked, that is.


I would much rather


them like hairs from a



deliver them

to your table,

watch your eyes              fill


with colors, watch

them     die with

the greenery.


Is it morbid?

No, just         slower.


by Julia Maria Ortiz

Photograph credits: "found on the shore" by Vanessa Maki


i think of a time - many forgotten calendars from now - when my skin is see-through paper and you laugh that i am a jellyfish. i will tease you about wrinkles you don’t have. and when i’m so feeble that my teeth fall out of my head i will wrap them in cloth and hand them back to you. i don’t know if you still want them but no one else should have them. am i making sense or making up stories again? there isn’t much difference anymore. now that dream are long as days. would you still let me tangle in bed beside you if i were nothing but hair, clothes, and ash? i cross my fingers and roll over.


Julia Maria Ortiz

Julia Maria Ortiz is a writer and artist attending Smith College. Her work has been published in Firefly Magazine and she acts as co-editor of Luminous Press. She enjoys fairy tales, warm cocoa and photography

bottom of page