Rotting Fruit

The pinching smell of fruit
not quite right, turned, not
too unsightly, but turning, and
perfuming the air, beyond the
wood floors and Persian carpets
and granite counter . . .
and cow dung, or dog feces, as
if barn animals slept within
bellowing or cowering, and his skin
always sweating ammonia, so she
turned her head into her own
shoulder, scoured and honey dusted,
for comfort.


Take a listen to Missy - doesn't that hit too close to home?