Instead of Making Banana Bread

The bananas on the counter are rotting

and you don’t seem to care that flies

have moved into our kitchen,

a flickering halo

around the sunken, brown sagging-smiles

or that those flies might soon

move to haunt and hover around the still

young apples, picked just

yesterday from the broken tree

back behind the neglected pottery shed,

a tree that had been fruitless

for years- so barren that it was scheduled

to be toppled next summer until

this miraculous birth

of small, smooth marbled red fruit;

this fruit that we picked

together, silently, last night by moonlight

as if we were witches harvesting herbs

for a potion that would rub away

the scar that still runs over

and between us – puckered, pink and painful.

 

But you did not notice the bananas.

Or, maybe you did

but didn’t care that their leathery

bodies were decomposing right next

to the coffee pot you grasp

every morning before leaving

without any breakfast.

 

So, I sit alone and watch the bananas’ skin

soften and wither in a single

spotlight of sun

and I wait for you to notice

the smell of something wrong.

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