Scenes from a Marriage

by Carson Lee
When the city is still sunken in slumber
under last night’s sky, my mother begins the day
with the washing of fruits—bruise-black
cherries, tender raspberries, & white peach.
The daily breaking of sun over tabletop
means that my father wakes to the avocado gutted,
bread severed into pieces, & eggs pulled apart
for the fire. He crushes coffee beans, waters the ivy
hanging loose & curled like her hair.
They do not speak over the sizzling song.
They do not speak to each other anymore.
My mother decided that mouths are for children
& memories of persimmons, skinned
apple slices, yellow musk melons.
They married on a mild December day.
They slow-danced to the Beatles, drank good
champagne, & had children, because my grandmother
dreamt of a single red salmon swimming
up a stream twice frozen over.