Margo Davis
Banana Phobia
We tried everything
with the new produce clerk,
who cowered in gloves
and apron. I peeled,
quartered, ate with granola.
When I made him pick up
a black ‘n’ bruised one,
he dropped it like a
joy buzzer, bruising its last
bright spot the size of a
code sticker. I tried to pinpoint
what frightened this grown man
transferring in from cold
cuts. Could it be the long
thick skins protecting its
fruit? The stem? Shape?
How some are green and
hard? Being plucked
before hitting one’s prime?
He mouthed inequity
— or was that iniquity?–
then retched on a bunch
poised for banana bread.
I snuck up behind him with
a wee cluster from Hawai’i,
four pocket-sized purple
bananas sweet as apples.
I swear, he said, someday
you too must face what will
undo you. Then he swung
his mallet as if in a horror flick,
pulverizing the wee ones.
Margo‘s more recent poems have appeared in The Fourth River, Ekphrastic Review, Misfit, and Light, and the Houston Chronicle (Fall). Recent anthology publications include Enchantment of the Ordinary (December), Of Burgers and Ballrooms, Untameable City, numerous Texas Poetry Calendars, and Echoes of the Cordillera. A Pushcart nominee awash in Republican mindsets, Margo thrives on closely observing film, photos, and natural settings. She’s known for eavesdropping.
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