the peaches are rotting
in the bottom of the fruit bowl
but there’s no time to throw them away
before the cousins arrive,
so we cover them up
with glistening pineapples,
crystalline lemons,
and bananas yellower than the sun.
the peaches are rotting
in the bottom of the fruit bowl
but it looks like a perfect still life
waiting for an impressionist’s brush.
the walls are dappled with yellow shadows,
as though from buttercups in the summer,
and the cousins say it looks
delicious.
the peaches are rotting
in the bottom of the fruit bowl
but when the rot spreads
to the pineapples, the lemons, the bananas,
instead of throwing them away
we pile in more fruit:
blushing cherries,
magnificent raspberries,
and strawberries from enid blyton’s picnic.
the peaches are rotting
in the bottom of the fruit bowl
but nobody needs to know.
we pile up all the colours we can remember:
satsumas like the sunset, grass green limes,
deep pastel plums, grapes that burst like balloons,
and fire-breathing dragon fruits.
the peaches are rotting
in the bottom of the fruit bowl
but it’s too late now.
the flies are here,
congregating in their masses,
and the table is rotting,
and the house is rotting,
and we are rotting too.
