i divorced you a thousand times in the produce section of the
supermarket. you can keep the rest of the stale cigarettes,
the oil paintings, that book on james morrison. you can keep
half the children (we have three) and on sundays when i would be
eating dinner at your mother’s house i will be free to walk around
my living room wearing only my underwear with a pineapple on my
head if i so choose. i was always a citrus fruit kind of girl, i
liked tang and a bit of bitterness, but you were one mouthful too
sour and more like a tomato anyway–an imposter, or something not
quite one thing or another. we had a bath and soaked to our
very pits, my breasts like two floating oranges. maybe lemons.
i ate your pink flesh with a spoon, digging into your center,
but you had spoiled seemingly overnight and sighing, i turned
to the artichokes, who sat with me quietly in sympathy.


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