written after a prompt from David Bonta’s morning porch.
I find a conjoined apple in the fridge
behind an empty jar of ketchup.
Where did it come from? Is it one or two?
I think of couplings that mark life,
joy and sorrow, of course
but also life and death, inseparable.
Things are not things without other things.
No surface is cleaned without dirtying another.
Also: bread and butter, olives in dry martinis
babies and diapers; or marriage, like the cleavage
that joins two breasts. One is lost
without the other, as all splendor is laced
with suffering, these are also
conjoined twins, unyielding.