top of page

"Bananas" by Robert Fillman

  • Apr 29, 2024
  • 1 min read

No matter where they are,

on a kitchen counter,


paper plate, or a bowl,

they find a way toward


love, spooning in bunches,

growing old together,


their bodies getting spots

as they soften, swollen


from neck to tip, waiting

to be picked up, the slight


curvature of their lives,

as in parentheses


that are always open,

tender hooks made of flesh.





Robert Fillman is the author of House Bird (Terrapin Books, 2022) and the chapbook November Weather Spell (Main Street Rag, 2019). He has received prizes from Sheila-Na-Gig online, Third Wednesday, and The Twin Bill for select poems. He has been a finalist for the Cider Press Review Book Award, the Gerald Cable Book Award, the Sandy Crimmins Prize in Poetry, and the Ron Rash Award in Poetry.

Recent Posts

See All
"A Love Story" by Natalie Marino

While on an evening walk, we see two dogs mating in an abandoned lot full of tall grass. Holding your hand in mine I look up at the moon looking like a coin caught between two cypress trees. I wonder

 
 
"Grass Grows Over A Daisy Petal" by Paul Potts

beyond the trees as far as i can see there’s a small duck i’ve been waiting for. i tell the duck my name, who i am. it probably doesn’t remember, but that’s fine. i remind myself that when you find an

 
 
"pit hymnal" by Klara Pokrzywa

Star of this soreness I laugh myself awake, sling deep into the heave. Straight out of dirt road walking and at capacity—this being the back-alley way; the heartbreak; the running away constantly. Int

 
 
bottom of page