Suppose

we had said yes more often,
that we’d angled toward the sun.

Suppose our hearts had been teeth,
gnawing each other to reach

the sweet fruit shielded by our
hard, hard rinds. Suppose, thus,

we’d split each other open, 
the other’s sticky, tacky, ripe-

sweet juice decorating our chins.
Suppose that were the heart’s work,

to destroy for pleasure, to remember
excess and be pleased, to rip into

flesh, to gnash with joy. Suppose
we’d lent ourselves to such tricks,

taken up the challenge of the unripe
fruit. Who knows where the pith

and peel would lie now, seeds
spit into corners, gathering dust?

In my new life, I am softening
in the light. Perhaps you are too.

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