Bananas sound like chop chop chop.
My daughter (18) with her stick-insect wrists
cutting them up to freeze and blend.
My kitchen is full of their fat-free sweat.
I don’t know how to talk about it.
I pick one up and touch it
to my nose. Close, the skin
has its own dun scent. Some creatures
consume the skin, I think.
I tried that once to see. Between the teeth
a stringy density. On the mouth’s membrane
a drying, withering chalk.
The banana in my hand is cool and smooth
like a wax effigy. My fingers wrap it
with just enough of a lap
to feel secure. Its body
is firm and curvily slim
like the limb of a well-made woman,
the woman my daughter might
become, if she eats