the avocado pears, expensive in their luxury
all arrive squashed, their insides
already browning
in my frustration, i tell a story inside my head
of some soft mammal body, another mother’s child
and how they had placed them in the box, forgetting
that heavy things have the ability to crush
whatever is in their way, whatever cannot escape
on the other side of the chat box flickering on my screen
is a soft body that i do not know, but
were it not for the serious matter
of these avocado pears, we might
in another world, have been friends
there are so many things that demand
to be told, and secretly i know
that these are the things that make me feel important
that i have the right to demand things, that i am allowed
to start another small war
over something that grew on a tree
my friend with the blue eyes sends me messages, and just
beneath the skin of her words there is
fear, and still
she talks of the skies, and the sea, and she tells me
to look for the moments that glimmer
—always the light, always the light
will save us
and i know that she is inhabiting
the paper-thin moments of her life
with the fragrance of courage, how it fills
my kitchen, wraps all around the buttery, bruised bodies
on my table, and when the man in the chat box
returns to hear my complaint, i release a dove instead:
oh, do not worry. everything here is fine. everything here is well.
© Liezel Graham 2023
lovely soul reading this: may the world be found by the many small doves that are just waiting to be released by your hand and may they eventually return home to roost in the crook of your neck.
