I Don’t Buy Peaches Anymore

The summer you left,

The fruit went bad in the bowl.

I watered the flowers by your bedside

To watch something grow,

But the fruit kept a different kind of company.

Flies gathered at the watering hole,

Then the mold feathered the pit,

Like a cheap fur coat.

Then, eggs spilled like white commas

Into the broken skin.

I told myself I’d clean it tomorrow.

Tomorrow lasted three weeks.

The fungus danced in the wind.

Every time I opened the window

the smell bloomed,

Sweet, and rank.

It smelled like you—

or like how you looked

at the end:

softened, collapsing,

uncomfortable to touch.

I kept the stone,

Dried and wrinkled.

I think of you whenever

I pass the produce aisle.

I don’t buy peaches anymore.