the beckoning

poem.

My eyes adjust slowly to the light -

wandering into the kitchen, 

pressing the soles of my feet against the cream tile.

I examine the fruit bowl; three oranges, yet to ripen,

two mangoes, browning at the root.

when I cut into them I think of what you said.

'I am too old to be doing this with you. 

Go to bed and don't talk to me.'

the knife is blunt; it scars the rind,

tears at the pulp until it unravels;

I count the white lines that run through the slices...

...45...46...47...48...49...50...51...

it doesn't seem to end.

I hear the hinges creak open;

I wait, hands tensed, for your breathing.

I tear my eyes from my hands,

the door is ajar.

I hear your snores down the hall.

the morning wind gasps from the window panes

Leaking the image of a world beyond us.