They Don’t Keep

On the day you were born, we bought fruit

checked your breath
and measured time in the ripening,
the bruising.

The plums grew sour before
your eyes ever opened. The bananas softened.

You came to sleep on our chests and the apples went forgotten.

They don’t keep.
No, they don’t keep.

We bathed lengthy, foreboding baths
with water, lukewarm
and thighs,
barely pink
as the fruit soured in the cupboard.

The fermentation happened quietly.
As secret and surprising as the prayers,
on the day that you were born.

Your cry, my god, the wine.
No, they don’t keep.