There are two trees in this garden. One bears heavy fruit. Branches bending under shiny, bright globes that Sing a melody so sweet I can’t help but think about my naked Body reaching up to pluck a great plump piece, Relieving the branch from its weight, Putting the flesh to my lips, tasting tart pulp, Juice dribbling down my chin. I think about my turning stomach and the way The rough bark felt underneath my fingers. I Think about the shivers and the fig leaves I clothed myself in To hide my sick and quivering body. The other tree, bears light Fruit, just big enough to fit on the end of a spoon. These fruits blossom on a vine that travels up the trunk And out on its two great branches that stretch Eastward And Westward. The end of each branch drawing in those Who seek. Each journey to this tree, a pilgrimage, A seeking out of the warm, sweet morsel, sprouting from The vine that sprouts from Virgin Tree. A clean and Perfect fruit that seems to make me in its likeness Or burn my flippant tongue Every time I draw near.
Discussion about this post
No posts