The breeze through the kitchen feels both
the smell of dampened grass trickling in
from a window I didn't know was cracked.
There's a certain unnamed dread in the way
approaching summer feels. The grass is greener,
trees blossoming into pink and white,
my boyfriend bought me a pear.
I've read poems before about splitting
oranges in half between thumbs, helping friends
never learn to peel them themselves.
There's a certain comfort in being needed,
I think of this as the paring knife
scratches the bare surface of my thumb,
skin falling off the juicy meat of the fruit.
It's unripe. I'd tried teaching him
the breeze is rolling in,
The kitchen is clean, and juice
trickles to the counter, leaving behind a
I will cut this, knowing he
The window is open, and I am cold.
Rain trickles through the open screen-window,
pitters against the floor in a wet puddle,
A door slams shut, then open,
another window left ajar,
or perhaps a petty spirit,
My hands re sticky, coated in peeled
my tea must be running cold,
I lick the juice off my hands
It's a broken, damned melody
breeze blowing the curtains
The pear is hard between my molars.
I oversteeped my tea, overtstayed
The house is empty and the
curtains twirl with a haunting grace,
the air smells wet of grass.
I close the kitchen window.
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