Shopping for fruit, 

 

Weighing the heft of canteloupes and melons 

 

Feeling the soft down on red yellow peaches 

 

And the smooth skin of nectarines, 

 

The plump firm softness of orange apricots. 

 

There are the bananas firm and not quite ripe 

 

Pushing outward on their skin 

 

Pointing horizontally like locked and loaded guns. 

 

Everywhere, the sense of bursting liquid 

 

Crisp but yielding flesh 

 

And the smell of lush green life not yet lived. 

 

 

 

At home the fruit’s laid out 

 

Skinned like beef, the juices spilled. 

 

The peach has filled a mouth with water 

 

And sweetly yielded up its nut 

 

For twirling by the tongue. 

 

The rinds of things half eaten 

 

Are abandoned all around 

 

And emptied of their jizzom. 

 

The flies descend to eat and lay their eggs 

 

In rotting garbage in the back. 

 

Hollow and forlorn 

 

The yellow covering of the banana lies limp on the table.