produce

each morning i wake up 
with a fruit sticker on my forehead.
i take it off & leave them
on the lid of the trash can.

some one is trying to make
produce of me, of us. the great
big hand gone window-perusing.

you have one too; i peel it
off. i keep yours for myself.
oh pineapple oh pear 
call me peach-kiwi-orange-apple.

all plum-gut & mash, 
i want to bite
my own cheeks-- the sweet
flesh beneath 
i feel pulp-chested &
green melon juice

by the dim light in the kitchen
we eat fruits. you use
a fork & i lick the sharp
knife to prove i don't
mind being pared down.

the hands come, each
proud from the dark doorway

moving over our bodies: touching
pinching caressing squeezing
thumping gripping 

i whisper
my father was a produce man

the hands ask each other
is this the fruit i want?

i'm sorry i lay apart from
you last night, i was thinking
about knowing bodies & how 

occasionally i realize how
illegible i am

i thought of cutting myself 
so you could see 
everything, sick & sweet ripe.

plums pound on the side of
the house, i'm throwing them,
smashing purple
purple smashing

in what ways do you 
fantasize about 
devouring yourself?

mine involve fingers &
nectar & chewing citrus, wild
the fruit sobbing honey 
down my chest

i want to sticky love 
with you

wash me in the sink
weight me

i want to hit your
tongue, a whole 
island of sugar