Purple Plums
For days, we fought,
while the purple plums waited
in the refrigerator, in a green bowl
next to the expired milk.
I feared the cold
burgundy flesh
had turned to mush,
that things had spoiled.
But I wanted to make the torte.
So, I sliced the fruit from the sharp pits,
creamed sugar, butter, and eggs,
sifted flour, baking powder, and salt,
and beat well.
I spooned the batter into the springform pan,
arranged the fruit skin-side up, sprinkled
sugar, lemon juice, cinnamon,
and added a touch
of cardamom and ginger.
September’s evening sky grew fuzzy.
Bats circled the yard.
We cut warm wedges of torte.
The bruised spots, the soft fruit,
like you, they survived my negligence.
Katherine Szpekman’s poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies including Sheila-Na-Gig, Adanna, Sky Island, Chestnut Review, Hiram Poetry Review, Connecticut River Review, Juniper, The Awakenings Review, Connecticut Literary Anthology 2020, Waking up the Earth: Connecticut Poets in a Time of Global Crisis, and elsewhere. She lives in Collinsville, Connecticut.