by Jeremy Francis Morris
A woman walked in the café and looked almost at me—
I stared directly at her, her short hair, and then her
eyes that didn’t match a face or age—She walked back
to leave, and then turned back once more, this time
ordering and while she ordered I noticed all the seats
were full in the café and I watched her eyeing a pear
in the case. I imagined her biting into it and then passing
it to me and I would bite the other side—she would say
this is our pear.
She didn’t buy the pear, just a small tea that was built for her
hands, keeping them warm. She walked slowly in the café,
and this time I knew why, and why her eyes wandered; she
wanted a chair— but she still never looked at me. I wanted
to ask her to sit, but she walked out and a man at an outside
table offered her a chair, she smiled and said thank you—
I ordered the pear and watched her through the window.
I watched her roll an orange in her palms
and place it in her dress pocket without paying,
but I didn’t stop her—the orange wanted to be with her
while she walked the streets and grow old by her side—
I followed her through the city and we passed a café
where a man watched her through the window,
but she never looked at him—the sun fell and she sat on a step,
her face turned orange, then the sidewalk and the buildings—
She pulled the orange from her pocket
and held it close to her chest—I sat down beside her and said,
it’s dead on the inside you know?
She peeled the orange and her hands fired up with color—
she let it fall to the ground and said,
so am I, but isn’t it beautiful?
Jeremy Francis Morris is a creative writing major at UNCW with a focus in poetry.