the postman delivers grapefruit

from Liz’s friend in Arizona. They’re the size of softballs from 8th grade gym class that year I kept missing on my swing, a little too early or late I could never tell. I’d focus and aim and aim and focus and then I’d hear a thwump in the catcher’s mitt. Three times I’d swipe at the air in front and three times, the dull sound of my failure just behind. Here, a corner of the kitchen has taken on a festive tint, the nearby oven mitts…

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