I left the plantains you sent me
on the counter. Wiped
around them on cleaning days.

Eyed them as they sat there,
expectant and unwanted,
for hours into weeks.

Let them blacken and soften
until they resembled
the dental records of a corpse.

Were they lifted from the soil
of your Dominican hometown?
Did you farm them yourself?

The bruises speckled on its skin,
were they hand-picked? You always
had great aim with that sort of branding.

I'm awake at the birth of morning,
early enough to see dawn's rosy sun
crack onto the horizon like egg yolk.

From my bedroom window, I can also see
a garbage truck craning its rusty claw
towards the pile I set out last night.

Talk about a metaphor.