Pear sliced into sandy crescents.
A loaf left lounging
on the chopping block.
Apricot marmalade smeared across
the marbled countertop.
Star breeze sweeps in
through the gaping window,
lapping at her bare toes.
She cannot feel it, though.
Like the brioche,
she has long gone
stale and splotchy gray.
When she’s finally found,
the kitchen smells
of honeyed mold
and eighteen yesterdays.
pm poetry 