Figs, she said. Write about figs.
A taunt? A snub? Something
told me it was just what it was:
a request for a something figgish…
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
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.