Harvest

Goodmorning to you, and to yours.
I am in a fog of that usual indecision
Which plasters itself over everything
And creeps from one thing,
And the source reaches up through my body
Like a tree
And my fingers are the wrinkly bananas
And my eyes are the grapes, snaking on vines
And my mouth is a watermelon
Filled with
Pitted, black seeds.
And my toes pop off like crab-apples
And my stomach swells like a gourd.
This is the morning of good and plenty.
And already I’m rotting, too ripe to go on,
Too full to move, bursting.
Sweating all over you,
Smelling, reeking
In the room.
This is the twisting indecision
Of a tree, sogging and sagging with harvest
Shedding fruits one by one
Feeling them drop, puddle at my feet
Until I am bare, just a body,
Just branches
And decisions fall from me
From my breasts
From my stomach
From my neck
And I can feel the pink skin breathe;
It stings
And it puckers.
But the morning greets me with indecision,
Smoothing my brow,
And easing me out of this funk.