By Munin Youngvanich
The silence of the fruit bowl, there. I stare hard at it, like the sun
On a midsummer’s day of fun, one question burns behind my eyes.
They are fiery pits, soaking my pink cheeks and throat with hot heat
My heart beating, my sore hands, beat my seat are spikes of naga scales
You are pale, sweat-slicked, the tension of the question hung in still air
A nightmare which could not be spoken aloud, broken, jagged words
The bowl had cut-up pineapple, yellow like citrine, and mango
Pomelo, pearls of rambutan, an aroma of fructose,
Have you eaten yet? No need to bet, because you know the truth
But it soothes the electric air, where would I be without you?
The apology is sweeter than words.
Illustration by Sophie Hart