Death of a Fruit Man

I guess he was dead,
light as bird bones
and purpling
at his fingertips.

In a circus tent shape
the white sheet fell
and he was a valley of snow.
I was not afraid.

We slept in the same bed,
warmth drained and 
words hollow, I turn out the lamp
on his side, because he cannot
do that for himself.

I dream of the supermarket,
the glittering lettuce, a distant
mirage, and bananas curled up for 
sleeping. The smell
of fried chicken drips
like grease and settles
into my ribcage.

"Darling"
he says,
"Is this melon ripe?"