Fresh Figs The trouble with figs is Not the sticky juice That flows down my cheek When I massage one in half With my lips, Or those rosy pink fibers That tickle my nose and my tongue As they slip toward my throat. Not how they bruise in my palm When my firm fingertips Close in too tight, Or their slow, greenish scent As they pose in a bowl Confident; no The trouble with figs is On that day, that minute, when they're rip on the tree -- Perfect, split, Moaning on the bowed limb, Supple skin Soft as a taut scrotum -- I cave in, Fraught with the thought that I ought to eat them All.
Fresh Figs.
Mele, Michael
Fresh Figs The trouble with figs is Not the sticky juice That flows down my cheek When I massage one in half With my lips, Or those rosy pink fibers That tickle my nose and my tongue As they slip toward my throat. Not how they bruise in my palm When my firm fingertips Close in too tight, Or their slow, greenish scent As they pose in a bowl Confident; no The trouble with figs is On that day, that minute, when they're rip on the tree -- Perfect, split, Moaning on the bowed limb, Supple skin Soft as a taut scrotum -- I cave in, Fraught with the thought that I ought to eat them All.