would that i were a fruiting body,
rather than a rotting one.
i have no way of knowing
if the fruit fly’s affinity for my wrists
marks me as living
with honeyed sweetness in my skin,
or if it attempts to make a friend of me
before my afterlife.
fruit flies keep me company as i write.
their legs press along my skin. mouths touch
lightly, seeking food.
it seems i’ll be in careful, waiting hands
that rub together, and over the eyes, as if praying.
either before a meal or for one,
light throws chaos onto colors but cannot ignite the soul.
i only pray i am an apricot hanging
from a tree, ready to fall
from the seat of my sorrows and claim