Amy Ash

Still, Life

All we are left with is ruined,
bruised fruit. The orange,

sunken and separated, soft
like the head of a newborn. Split open,

the hiss as juice drips out.
Blueberries roll across the counter

like spilled pills, the rough tongue
of strawberry skin reaches for them.

The apple is a beautiful object,
so plump and so firm, until it has gone

to sponge. And what remains
is this hunger.


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