She stood in her kitchen
(ponytail tight, lips tighter),
talked to herself to no one in
particular, to no one who’d
listed out loud whether
this avocado was a good egg or
a bad seed. So hard to tell
with avocados. She gave it a
feel. Placed it back in the window
sill. Or not. Maybe attempted
a sniff. A gentle squeeze. Talked some
more to the air to dimpled apples to flies
in the compost (feet mired in plushy
lead slippers).
A lunge for the blunt knife. The first
cut across rough skin & she could tell
smooth linden half-moon from
glossy pit. Twisted parts, soft flesh through
and through. Or not. Sometimes she
broke open into a wide valley,
popped the seed to find choking
ropes & flecks of ugly & gray matter of
rot. In silence she’d toss it β fruit
that had once held fistfuls, worldfuls
of promise. Now, out loud, her vow
to never try again.