My Mother Cuts Fruit
UNITED STATESPOEM13
Nia
4/6/20261 min read
My mother cuts fruit
when she wants to talk.
Never says,
“Sit down, I am worried.”
Instead—
an apple appears
in perfect slices.
A mango opens.
A bowl slides toward me.
Between bites,
the difficult question arrives.
Love, apparently,
can come sharpened
into pieces small enough to eat.