Alexis Rhone Fancher

RIPE

Wanna bite? Better than apples. Tastier.
Especially these red ones. Comice.

They’re sweet,
creamy textured, and juicy.

Like me, their skin breaks easily,
might appear bruised on the surface,

but this does not indicate
damage on the juicy interior.

Take special care in handling even before ripe.

Question: How is a woman like a pear?
Answer: It depends on how you spell it.

Check for Ripeness™ by applying
gentle thumb pressure near the stem end.

Like me, when it gives, it’s ready to be eaten.

_{(Poem created of text from the USA Pear website.)}

BAD FRUIT

It’s leaking again, my husband says. In the bedroom, the twice fixed roof defies repair, drips
steadily onto the corner of our bed. It’s a good thing we don’t have an electric blanket, I
deadpan.

It’s past midnight when a strange woman pounds at our front door. Let me in! I look through the
peephole. She’s pretty, about thirty, a large, crimson backpack balances on her shoulders; she
sags from the weight. Her long, red hair is wet, plastered to her face. I need a ride to Redlands,
tonight! the woman cries. Jimmy! Ya gotta help me out! She stares, wild eyed.

This will not end well, my husband says. He hesitates, then dials 911. He swears he’s never seen
her before.

Strange things are piling up like coincidence. “Unexpected convergence,” my horoscope says.
It starts with fruit. The mango refuses to ripen. The ruby grapefruit’s chewy. Dry. He divides it
into sections, removes the seeds, but still, no takers. Somebody needs to eat this, my husband
whines.

Do people, like fruit, go bad?

The redhead stops pounding on our front door, tries the kitchen entrance. Law enforcement’s
taking their sweet time.

We cower in the kitchen as the redhead rattles the door. Dammit, Jimmy! Open up! She stares at
us through the kitchen window. Don’t think I can’t see you!

I gotta know. Yeah, Jimmy! How does she know your name? My husband shrugs. Maybe it’s on
the mailbox, he says. How should I know? Look, baby, don’t start. I’m doing my best.

Doubtful, although I give him points for effort. He hasn’t screamed at me or threatened me lately.
I count that as a win, although I’m far from convinced. Innocent he’s not. She’s his type. He has
a thing for redheads.

Back in the bedroom, the ceiling continues to weep.

By the time the sheriff rolls up the redhead’s asleep on our front porch, her backpack serving as a
pillow. She’s drenched, shivering. I almost feel sorry for her. But then I remember she’s fucking
my husband.

Look, I’m just trying to keep up. I know his password. His safe word. Each week, I police the
refrigerator, cull the past due eggs, moldy cheddar. The tomato’s gone soft. The milk turns, pours
out in chunks. It makes a sound, like drowning.

THE GOD FOR BROKEN PEOPLE
_{There is a god for broken people – Roxane Gay}

This is the god for the second rate, the one who waylays you at the party, plies you with
bourbon, fucks you in the kitchen, makes you walk home in the rain. This god shines in the run
off. This god hustles the night. This god mines the maimed, culls emotional cripples off the top
like cream. This god is a shape-shifter, a dumpster diver, the god who loiters at the corner
of Dolorosa & Despair. This god drinks alone. The god for broken people trolls the city
for discards, marries the exploited with the lost. This god sweeps up the miscreants, gusts
their darkness into night. This is the god of no hope. No money. This god has your back when
you backslide. This god bets on you to fail, hides in your broken places. This god is willing to
wait. When you’re ready to surrender, remember: this is your last, best chance. This god will not
stick by you, won’t give you false hope. This god will kill you. Or save you. Choose.

Poet/photographer Alexis Rhone Fancher is published in Best American Poetry, Rattle, The American Journal of Poetry, Spillway, Plume, Diode, The Pedestal Magazine, Duende, Vox Populi, Gargoyle, Elysium Review, and elsewhere. Her photos are published worldwide, including the covers of The Pedestal Magazine, Witness, Heyday, Pithead Chapel, The Mas Tequila Review, and a six page spread in River Styx.. She’s authored eleven poetry collections, most recently, TRIGGERED, (MacQueens) and BRAZEN. (NYQ). A multi Pushcart Prize and Best of the net nominee,Alexis recently won Best MicroFictions, 2025. She calls the Mojave Desert home. www.alexisrhonefancher.com

“Bad Fruit,” first published in Slipstream

“The God For Broken People,” first Published in The San Pedro River Review