Fruit

In Athens,

at twelve and thirteen,

we sit in a rental car,

jasmine on our skin,

oranges under our shirts.

We mimic what we’re not—

laughing until it hurts.

Many years later, in Victoria,

she polishes spoons.

The strain of my marriage,

presses between us.

She doesn’t ask—

I don’t explain

what can’t be seen.

When I finally leave,

she calls it karma,

debts I must have owed.

As though pain

could be borrowed,

then returned.

Silence hangs between us,

overripe fruit,

left to rot.