These days the fruit on the table
ripens through before I’m ready
surprising me with softness, yield
a whole lot of give when all the while
I am expecting wait or not yet or I need
a little more time. It’s not that I’m not
in a hurry to get anywhere. It’s that
we promised ourselves this year
would be different—slower days and
full-stop nights—but we didn’t completely
believe it. Soon enough there will be
bruising. A crater or two in what was once
so smooth. If I could only bring myself
to carve out a chunk of imperfect
flesh, grind a mouthful of seeds
beneath my teeth, I would understand
that there is nothing noble about
catching the sweet the moment
before it turns. Nothing sinister
or tragic about learning to partake
in the first shy bloom of fragrant rot.
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