Figs

Figs, she said.

Should I even be thinking this, I thought.
So blatantly erotic. That’s what a fig is.

The pearling sap at the tip when it’s ripe
and the way the blue skin gives
beneath the fingers…revealing… well…
something like L’origine du monde
who could not think of that tangle of darkness
of warmth, of lunar reds so sticky and inviting…

Oh, she likes me to tell stories, I thought
but I doubt she’s prepared for these…
stories of how warriors in africa
used to drink the menses of whores
before battle. That’s what a fig is.

Maybe next time we’ll try peaches…
but definitely not bananas.

.

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