they say that when the moon is ripe
the earth bulges

in the kitchen
the fruit bowl is cool to the touch

these plums are as dark as chocolate
pressed up against apricots like
plump upturned bottoms that have
nestled in a fold of flesh

the skin of the nectarine rides up in the cold air
its little stone heart
bleeding out behind closed doors

from hunger
they pluck one and
eat it over the sink

spilling juices with
gentle consideration

the ants stop what they’re doing and

they wash their hands
and come
to bed

where half asleep I lick them
like their lips could be
my own


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