the maidenhair tree (ginkgo), 16th street NE and Oates, Trinidad D.C.

In autumn the female 

unleashes her fruit onto the cement of 16th street D.C.

When left there it rots and produces a smell akin to vomit

 

There is a grace period before she punishes us,

before her unnoticed and trampled work produces

the smell of rancid purge

 

Planted there for her ornamental value and her apparent tolerance for abuse

She grows tired of solitude and exploitation

 

I suffer. every time I pass her. reminded of the stench that rests within me too,

one ready to boil over at any moment

 

Others pass by, stumbling with a hazy liquid in their crinkled,  plastic water bottles 

They don’t seem to smell it, or maybe they have gotten used to it.

The wiser walk on the other side of the street

slouch on their stoops 

Keep their distance

 

Her fruit smushes under worn nikes, and hubless tires

No amount of hard rain unfastens the rot

 

“Stinky fruit” he exclaims every time we pass by

Only reminded of her when forced to face the stench she made

The smell wafts into our apartment, I think of her before I fall asleep 

I can conjure her smell when I am miles away

 

I can’t blame her, 

She did not choose

To be here Neither did any of us  

We can try to convince ourselves otherwise 

 

We will produce our own fruit

That will go unnoticed

That will be left

On the sidewalk

 underneath passing bodies

To rot

And only then can we grab the attention of others

Once we begin to rot ourselves