Elegy With Apples and Grapefruit

Moonlight baptizes the countertops cleantonight, white marble marred by nothingmore than shadowed veins. The dogspad a makeshift den, mourningthe lack of crumbs. She makes tea, stumbles,grips the edges of an empty table, eyes salt-soakedand sore. She trips over the dogs’ bowls, and kibblescatters across the cold floor. From the tea, a tasteof dandelion stalks and dirt. She was oncesomeone's wife, once brought homearmfuls of sun-warmed apples for the manwho promised her love. Now, the emptyfruit bowl makes a hollow of her heart.No one remembers the two who used to livehere: the ones washing dishes amidst themerriment of their life, splashing in the suds, hipskissing, bumping to Ray Charles. The onesmaking breakfast for their children. He flippedpancakes, her favorite, laden with apples,while she—with the scrutiny of a scientistpeering through a microscope—sectioned grapefruits, removing each bitof peel and pith, the juice stinging her bittencuticles, remnants packed beneath her nails.She piled the pieces in a bowl and smiledas her family feasted. And once, in the shapelesshours between sex and dawn, she left their marriagebed to sit naked atop the counter. She peeleda whole globe and devoured its pink flesh.It tasted of their love: sweet, sleepy, bitter.