Each year on June 30
I write a poem called June 30 June
30, or, rather, pull it from the amaranth
with apologies to Richard Brautigan whose doughnut
I stole, his June 30 June 30 pearl,
though, in the name of love.
This year it’s about love
or love many years ago, 30
years ago in the Pearl
District, Portland, Oregon, the June
Rose Parade, before Voodoo Doughnuts
and overpriced amaranth
muffins—though nothing wrong with amaranth
and the Nothin’ Muffin that I love
and I won’t scoff at a doughnut
from Voodoo, either, if it’s gluten-free, on 30
June
with my friend Pearl
my girlfriend Pearl
who bakes me amaranth
cornbread every June
30, and is the love
of my life. I mean besides June 30
and a gluten-free doughnut
the most elusive doughnut
known to man, like the black pearl
and the age of 30
and the color of amaranth
since I fell in love
with June
30 on June 30. I’m talking about June
30 June 30, the imaginary doughnut
the promise of love
and the pearl-
handled something, and the amaranth
in the garden on June 30
June 30, the date, the poem, the pearl,
the amaranth doughnut (doughnut made of amaranth).
Love, Randy Russell, 2026, June 30.
—Randy Russell 6.30.26
