Gala apples decay under your dirty
clothes in the closet as blue mold
forms on pasta in the fridge and
a plate of crackers with peanut butter
draws sugar ants across the counter
in the group home where you barely live
like a delusion among shared rooms.
The scent of oatmeal cookies baking
did not silence your broken voice
insisting that anything you eat will burn or
poison. My gifts of groceries waste into
compost with no garden to transform
its sour leavings into flower and food.
I do not know how to feed you.