Downward Pressure

The kitchen light is buzzing, a low, yellow hum.

The bowl of nectarines has been sitting for a week,

shoulders slumped, skin gone soft as a wet rag.

One of them finally gave up the ghost.

The weight of its own juice was too much to carry.

It split along the seam, a slow-motion wreck,

leaking sugar onto the cold ceramic.

I touch the flattened bottom where it met the bowl,

feeling how the world just wants us to sit down,

to sink into the wood until we're part of the floor.