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.