Purple on my wrist and purple in the bowl,
bruise and bounty trading glances.
late-week persimmons in a paper sack,
flowers droop over the sink,
small harvests leaning toward spoilage,
rotting before I reach them;
the tongue’s color louder than the mouth,
I call the shade by its house name:
aubergine, aubergine.
The hallway turns with the fruit in my palm.
memory takes the stairs ahead of me.
I walk them alone
and keep going.
Purple stains the fingertips after soap.
The day stains too,
but it leaves less evidence.
I place what I can on the sill,
a dark, slight abundance
ripening beside ache
