Which sins do you want me to confess?

What would it mean to you if 

I said that because of you- I  bargain

with the fates using my eyelashes, that I left

your gloves on the floor for the dog to tear 

apart, that I still won’t eat fruit blushed with bruises.

What if, instead, I told you that I spent twenty-five

pounds on figs this month, just to savour the

spongy pith, to feel the wet crush of seeds like

sand in my mouth, to tongue the memory of wasps:

mothers and children confusing beginnings 

and endings in purple, organ darkness. 

Before, where there was a blank, there is you 

cutting watermelon into squares, leaving it 

in the fridge for when we came back from the beach 

sunsick and seadazed. And again, you, 

biting off chunks of apple because I’d lost my

front teeth. You, sucking on the bitter rind of a lemon.

Maybe it comes down to this - cherry pits 

have only a small amount of poison.

These days, I take care to peel an orange all 

the way without breaking it, and winding it back to

make an empty whole. And even now, in a kitchen,

a peach pit slips out of your hand and skitters on the tiles.