(the) fruits

all seasons have falling leaves,
they’re my old selves—perhaps not as old as i think—
i have broken myself down too much—tonight—

i do everything with
oranges except eat them.
love is in the peeling, is in the
separating of the segments, one by
one

slow & wholesome day at a time.
who will do that for me? with the
white bits still attached—
i miss her, all too much, & still lie

awake for the feeding. a horse
clips down the street & i have no apples. just a body full
of honey-laced milk or something else that stings
with more sweetness than i can take. at least it’s
something

i have tried. i have known of people to not do that. i
give them space, during which
a friend & i spend time together.
afterwards, my calves ache for days.
this is love, the good grit & dirt of
it. we have bananas &
apricots & know of each other’s pain. lay
on the bed together & still
laugh the same. my mother was
wrong about so much. still, i am
on edge & not sure why. i know i lie

awake for the feeding. see,
both hunger & fullness make my stomach hurt.
i don’t talk about this—there are
other fruits to peel—i allow myself to feel the sticky
innards—& then rosemarie says she is sorry for the feeling
of what might have happened to me, that
maybe next time i can look her in the eye.
i tell her i’ll try—i don't

& all gone is this hold of mine—
the dead only need be dead. no
washing or slicing. i am
not there yet. my teeth pierce the
blueberries & enjoy it—
it’s been several winters where i
have sat inside & heard the leaves blow.