Eating the Bananas Before They Turn Brown
I do not call it a war because there is no fight,
just a quick change from yellow to brown.
There is no victory. I simply zombie up
and tear open sugar bruises, telling my body
to stay because no one eats bananas
the way I do. Everyone else watches them rot.
I live for quiet chews, soft juice
of tomato on the verge of decay.
No one ever speaks of a domestic god,
the one who pours milk down the drain
once it’s spoiled, who tosses bread
when it molds. I fold my hands at night
not in prayer but defeat. Each morning I rise
because no one remembers expiration
dates like I can. If I were dead,
the house would spore over. In my nightmares,
old cheese fingers my nose
and struts around with long legs,
loosing wet spinach like confetti
on my face. But I never let it get that bad.
I wanted this poem to be softer.
Instead it is just facts: I don’t kill myself.
I eat grapes before they sour,
and in this small way, I play savior.