dust-fruit

He left her for the thought of them

in the suburbs, delivering pizza,

fried fish skin dinners, coffee,

piss-drunk poverty.

He left her for Europe,

to carry the torch of his forefathers

who governed by dialectics into

supremacy, into dominance of land,

separation of class, warring of peoples.

And she stays with their spore print:

barefoot on the linoleum floor, their sidewalk,

his drunk pissing wall

plastered with advertisements

at the edge of the park where they would

roll around until the sun broke or clouds cracked.

All these remain, left to deposit their dust daily;

while she capitulates to the gale from this ocean,

or rain from her side of the split sky,

to carry the fruit away.

photo by teresa gierzynska