Food and Beverage: “Fruit Basket” by Gwenyth Wheat

Fruit Basket 

I Google what it means to dream about rotting fruit. 
Bones becoming pulp. Decomposition. I refine my search

as the doctor rolls toward me. Points at my anatomy.  
This will be good to know for when you have kids. 

Look here—You have the perfect pelvis. 
The perfect shape. He draws imaginary lines.

The tile floor looks like blue cheese and I would rather
point at the sky and ask it about freckles and mold. 

You’ve had baby fever. Come on, you’d be lying if you said
you haven’t. Just you wait, I think you’ll change your mind 

about everything. For the first time, I say the same thing back 
and the doctor agrees. There’s something in the clouds. 

Your hip pain? You’re just small. You’re petite. Pretty easy
fix, do more squats. Increase protein intake. Lift weights. Bulk up. 

Do knee raises every day as you brush your teeth, that’ll fix it— 
He tells me to lie, stretches my leg to my ear. Flexible.

The window bends. He tells me to bring my knees to my chest. 
My hip’s soft fruit pops. I practice my wince—the invisible one. 

The doctor doesn’t see me shudder. Aren’t all girls flexible? 
Thunder cracks and I ache from the answering and pinching 

and stretching and the computer cursor blinking across 
my bones. The MRI waves at me from across the room.

My pelvis looks like an orange slice the doctor says is suitable 
in shape, diameter, arch. Different shapes are suboptimal. 

Suboptimal. For having babies, like I said before. I want
the storm to break into this office. Give me air. Answers.

A left hip impingement. Hip dysplasia. Snapping 
Hip Syndrome makes sense because you’re a dancer. 

You’re young, living the dream. A pile of squashed blueberries, 
bleeding raspberries. I can hear the clouds whispering. 

I nod along and lunge when asked. So I am not comfortable 
looking into this further until it disturbs your sleep 

or you can’t walk. Do clouds sleepwalk? Do they dream
about sour things? I imagine my hips as spoiled strawberries. 

The room spins. Don’t forget to put your name in the raffle up front!
I buy orange juice on my way home, shake the pulp, and cry, contained. 

About Gwenyth Wheat

Gwenyth Wheat (she/her) is currently an MFA and MA candidate at McNeese State University. A Best New Poets 2024 and Pushcart nominee, her work has appeared in Great Lakes Review, LIGHT Magazine, NOTA, The Poet’s Touchstone, Voicemail Poems, ZAUM, and elsewhere. She is currently a writing instructor and the Poetry Editor for The McNeese Review.