Slapstick
These bruised bananas, braised by a neon sun -
cheetah-spotted, bee-stung, butterfly
wingprint on their hides, besotted, sprung
from tropic soil - two mortal days ago
were emerald-green. Death darkens them,
sweetens them. I crack a stem, pull back
the blackened skin, breathe in the full bouquet
of soft fruit rotting at the blistered tips,
fault line broadening at its midriff,
decomposition overtaking it
filling my nostrils with a heady wine.
In minutes, nothing’s left but the punch line.
Home Movie
Rewind. Replay. Repeat.
Remorse. Regret. Delete.
A Calf’s Head
They must have used a knife – one good clean thwack
between the temples, skull divided straight
by hairline crack, each jellied hemisphere
slow-roasted, charred a ghastly black.
The waiter brought it to us on a plate.
We didn’t have the nerve to send it back.
Marc Alan Di Martino
