Poetry by 2012 Contributor, Michele Reale
She decided to explain the pluot thus: not a peach, not a plum. Not your mother’s jam. Like your favorite uncle wearing your aunt’s polka dot dress. Because he said he grown used to it, she would clarify the taste of brine, but none would be found in the vicinity. Instead she’d go on and on about the velvety consistency it had when spread on a fresh loaf. Convince him that the reddish sweetness was something he could not live without, this man who she just slept with on crimson sheets, in a room she’d fashioned after what she envisioned Versailles to be. The imagination can only take one so far. Now she would have to rip it all apart and start from scratch. He lay curled onto himself in the bed and she felt a great shame in waking someone from such a deep sleep. She’d phone a discreet friend instead and collect on a favor that had been gathering moss. So much depends on the ability to begin again. She’d lay the breakfast table with precision and toast the bread. Lick the sweetness from her fingers. Leave the back door open. Gallup into the yard and set those fruit bearing trees on fire.