The gilt pears shine
like the hooded eyelids
of the Madonna peering from the wall
in shame and piety. The black glass grapes
tight with silk and wire grow round
as your lover’s eyes when she’d see you come
back into the room. Would she remember
your softness, Kitty? Like these velvet apples stuck
with pins and green
sequin-cloves? The fruit bleed
something dead and dusty in the lead
crystal bowl in my mother’s parlor
in the old house where the lights
don’t work, the gold cherub-sconces
unplugged from the walls. Outside,
the moon is new, unlit. Eat.
Stay here with me. Don’t ever leave.