Never thought to separate
bananas from their bunch,
except right before I eat one.
To slow the rot, I’d sooner
swaddle the huddled stems
in plastic, preserve the nestled
curve of them, row of teenage
girls turned sideways, hands
on hips as they pose for a photo.
I like to believe storing pit
with flesh keeps the half-eaten
avocado green, and that stalks
of asparagus go limp when not
banded together. I am bound
to credulity and wonder,
although little child is left.
I remember my newborn, how
she would startle on her back,
herky-jerky reaching, hands
outstretched like a supine
skydiver. We’re always falling,
aren’t we? If not down,
apart. Only the reflex fades.
The need behind—it stays.
The masseuse kneads her fingers
along and down my forearm
until she reaches my hand,
which, involuntarily, closes
around hers.
