by Tariq al Haydar charlesdeluvio I wish I could forget the plum I lost. Nothing has ever tasted quite like it. When my mother laughed as her friend lit up my birthday cake, all I could think of was the empty space in my breast pocket. I dread my own bedroom, because the purple fruit that used to rest on my nightstand is in another mouth. I sleep in the little TV room downstairs, and dream of Copenhagen, of that night two centuries ago, when we were soldiers, huddling underne