She lets them grow slack in their purple suits.
She keeps them

in a bowl on the granite island.
Plump, gleaming—like the plucked eyes

of a black bear—so dark
they hoard the morning light.

More sluice than fruit
when she finally takes a bite,

a streak of juice escaping down her chin.
She chews with her eyes

closed, head thrown back,
exposing the taut cords of her neck.

She hates the skin.
Too tart. So she sucks the sweet

pulp from each bite, then spits
the scraps—wet & wrinkled

like a newborn fruit bat’s womb-slick wings—
into her crumpled napkin. She spits

like she’s ashamed: flashing
an abashed smile if she’s caught in the act.

But this is not about shame. This is
relish, abandon. She takes

the pit inside her mouth & rolls it around
for hours—as she empties

the dishwasher; as she walks her lizard-crazed terrier
around the block—scraping it smooth

as a buzzard’s bowed head.

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