The dead cherry has shed two more limbs, yellow stubs shining dully like the eyes of a corpse. I find a conjoined apple in the fridge.


  1. I find a conjoined apple in the fridge
    behind an empty jar of ketchup.

    Where did it come from? Is it one or two?
    I think of couplings that mark life,

    joy and sorrow, of course
    but also life and death, inseparable.

    Things are not things without other things.
    No surface is cleaned without dirtying another.

    Also: bread and butter, olives in dry martinis
    babies and diapers; or marriage, like the cleavage

    that joins two breasts. One is lost
    without the other, as all glory is laced

    with suffering, these are also
    conjoined twins, unyielding.

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