The apricot that I ate this morning in the mamad,
which I'd accepted, half-awake, from the grey plastic bowl that
Dvora had set before us–
A small, sweet, refreshment
between the booms, is
also a poem:
Upon consuming its
sugary flesh in three bites, and
at a loss for what to
do with its stone,
I tucked it, safely
into the pocket of my housedress.
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