You wore gray that April

and were precise in your choice

of plums and peaches, they trusted

you, the pyramids of bruised fruit,

oil you fingers left behind

on their lip-soft skin. They told

their pit-secrets, dreams of birds and sun,

eager to come home with you

away from fluorescent light,

be washed in your sink as you imagined

tasting them in a private way a lover

could disapprove of. Was it your leaf-like

eyes that alerted such desire, the prospect of

becoming nameless in your throat?

Yes, they were ripening a few feet

from the tank of clasp-clawed lobsters

I shielded you from.

Mia Prinzen