Silly Wraith Crushes Fruit
By Mackenzie Cook
I cut up the fruits that have been
slowly rotting atop my fridge
into small pieces. I let the juices
roll over my fingers all slow
leaving cold snail trails. I
rip open an orange,
like a heart, bare-handed.
I crush an apple with the butt
of a heavy knife, the stem crawling
with mold. My room is dark and
my fingers smell like pistachios.
I hear murmurs from the hall
and I brush dirt off my desk
from the nerve plant. The one I
tenderly applied alcohol to with
aQ-tip, lightly dabbing the leaves
to kill off scale bugs. I see myself
from the outside as little flicker.
Ghost person. My hands are sticky
and sweet. I ask myself the same thing
every night: what kind of haunt
am I? Poltergeist, phantom,
silly wraith? I pull orange strings
out from my teeth.