Sunday afternoon, a basket of fruit.
A luncheon prepared,
with cherry red fingernails.
An orange, sliced.
with cherry red fingernails.
An orange, sliced.
 |
| Fernando Botero – Picnic, 1989 |
he sleeps, contented
as the volcano burns.
Two glasses, she pours,
and then two more.
A rug, in the valley.
Bread, sliced.
As clouds drift overhead
he snores, contented
as the cigarette burns.
She drinks her juice,
eats a grape,
and then a fig.
Puts his plate aside.
Too much fruit
for two. Discontented
as the desire burns.
A baby, she says,
perhaps even two.
But he hears,
not a word.
When finally he wakes,
The volcano still burns.
And a fork. Left behind.
Mary couldn't stay another day longer.
© the dishonest woman
