She Contemplates Her Grocery List

Don't love me like lettuce, shredding and stripping away until it is time to throw away the hard, useless heart.

Don't love me like peaches, digging to the core and finding yourself disappointed with the shriveled pit you find there.

Don't love me like grapes, consuming until only the impotent vines, the skeleton, remains, fragile and forgotten.

Don't love me like cherries, eating the flesh and spitting out the rest.

Don't love me like kiwis, either—you would only have me naked.

Don't love me like apples, cutting me into orderly pieces, each with a fragment of heart at the end.

Don't love me like melons, slowly, excruciatingly, scooping out the insides one cold metal spoonful after another.

Don't love me like the cashier at this grocery line, who will take as many as twenty items at a time.

Love me like bananas, that come in a bunch,
resilient and deep,
whose outward bruises only graze the skin,
which you throw away anyway.
Some other fool can slip on it.