I have a kitty on my lap, I just wrote two poems (and revised a third), and I’m full of Malaysian food; there are worse birthdays, I suppose. I feel as though I’d be remiss if I didn’t post today. Another year, another sense of not-quite-accomplishment; overall, it was a pretty banal and unfulfilling time. But I’m trying to get myself out of the funk, as I’ve been trying to do all summer: certainly a new job and a place to live next month would help, but until those pieces fall into place, I’ll have to try and work the ones that have already so fallen, in order to brighten life up a bit.
One such thing is that workshop starts up again tomorrow, which I’m looking forward to. I feel as though I haven’t written nearly enough this summer (and certainly nothing I’m particularly proud of) to bring stuff, but I’ll just have to deal, at least for the first week. I’m more and more hopeful that I can re-discover good patterns of creation and productivity; if I didn’t have hope, I don’t know what I’d do.
Anyway, this is for a dVerse prompt to imitate a Jane Hirshfield theme: eroticism through fruit. The suggestion includes writing about the first sexual encounter, so I tried to weave a little bit of that into this one. But mostly, it was just a cheeky little piece with some shameless imagery. I’ll leave you to read it to your amusement and arousal.
A single gleaming stalk of it, its poisonous leaves
stripped and left on the floor of the forcing shed,
slender and redly naked in the dim candlelight
where it has pushed through years of cold soil
and cracked the rime, the crisp feel of it
clutched in the curious hand, spring’s first fruit
so desperate to grow they say you can hear it
creak in the darkness, ready to be pulled up,
to bless the tongue with its bittersweetness
like some sugar acid taper begging for flame,
like the exhumed finger of a too-long-buried sun.