My mother grew up
in the basement of a retirement home.
Tired, the residents shuffled to dinner.
One man
stood every night
at the head of the table without clothes
years of gravity
evident in his sagging,
translucent skin.
The yard of fruit trees bled sweet
in the summer, tender and dripping
on the melting asphalt.
Each plum had a worm
and my grandmother
with the succulent heart
in the curve of her palm
would cut
out the tainted square
of dark flesh.
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