by Levia Roskopf
How many still lifes of fruit do we have to preserve
in a faulty icebox of a painting frame
before oil paints crust and smear with age?
Stale and unpalatable
on the table, on the wall, in your brain—
fruit flies buzz their satisfaction.
The fruit in the frame has long been spoiled,
but groups of small children in museums crowd around.
They fake appreciation as their noses crinkle in disgust at the smell.
Sludge drips from the frame, mold mixed with paint.
“Isn’t this lovely?” Their teacher swoons,
fruit flies swarming from her mouth.
