Eating the Bananas Before They Turn Brown

I do not call it a war because there is no fight,

just a quick change from yellow to brown.

There is no victory. I simply zombie up

and tear open sugar bruises, telling my body

to stay because no one eats bananas

the way I do. Everyone else watches them rot.

I live for quiet chews, soft juice

of tomato on the verge of decay.

No one ever speaks of a domestic god,

the one who pours milk down the drain

once it’s spoiled, who tosses bread

when it molds. I fold my hands at night

not in prayer but defeat. Each morning I rise

because no one remembers expiration

dates like I can. If I were dead,

the house would spore over. In my nightmares,

old cheese fingers my nose

and struts around with long legs,

loosing wet spinach like confetti

on my face. But I never let it get that bad.

I wanted this poem to be softer.

Instead it is just facts: I don’t kill myself.

I eat grapes before they sour,

and in this small way, I play savior.