YOU HAVE CHANGED THE TASTE OF FRUIT

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It is impossible to be two places at once, he tells me.

I know this to be untrue. I do it all the time.

 

Hand on my waist; he has mistaken this for anchor.

Instead I am inside the rim of the light fixture, hiding

in the shadow between morning and night. In this light

he looks like you did when we were still new.

 

The night I found you left,

I ate 12 of your name. Skin and all.

The night I found you left, I ripped my mouth raw.

Brown bristles and black seeds lodged themselves between my teeth,

even fiber lasted longer than us.

 

I picked you out of fruit salad for months. My taste-buds have developed

more sensitive, I don’t think I could tolerate your acid, even if I wanted to.

 

BY OLIVIA SCARLET HOFFMAN

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