FRUIT AT THE RODINgrowing up, i ate kiwis like apples. my mom would cut them into slices but when she wasn’t around i chomped down on them whole to let sour juices fall down my chin this afternoon i am eating delicate slices from whole foods i can see there are little veins connecting the seeds of the kiwi to its core i never noticed this before i learned recently raspberries are roses or part of the family, at least and them and strawberries aren’t berries at all i heard it’s because their seeds are on the outside or something, maybe something anyway what i meant to say is by the end of winter i forget how peaches are my favorite fruit. not-quite-ripe kiwis are somehow easier to find and i tend to cling to what’s close IN THE GRASSwith silk ribbons draped from your neck like ballet shoes sitting in the sunlight noise, you are rich, almost to the point of sweetness troubles drawn out slowly from under your skin. my toes are covered in lemon juice & i have river water on my hands that won’t wash off i ask you to come stretch my bones today, i am trying to find the heavens. i can see remnants of god in the angels of your face, yes the angels, playing lightly on your cheekbones i watch melodies form & think of your fingertips on my palms & of a girl who read them once. a single deep, solid line to represent love, i was told my influence turns weak halfway through my life yet still, my love remains; a crevice making its way through my fingers like a river. “here.” you extend your arms towards me & it is my choice to grab hold
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