Ode to Unspoiled Fruit
Evolve November Poetry Competition
I. Before I could write my name, I’d been plucked;
his thumb pressed peachy flesh that would not yield but bruised skin torn, still too young for juices dribbling down chins.
Like choice delights in grocers’ bins fingered for firmness, preferred to riper plumps, not an inch of me remained without some mark of him in handling
until
I swallowed the metaphor pit and all. Sampling done, he refused to pay and sped away.
II. Before I could tell my tale, breasts developed,
my own tender fruit, foreign to his intrusion, double swaths of skin and heft over which t-shirts stretched bold with lettering KEEP OFF
chaste ornaments mine to cup mine to bestow nature’s gift, unblemished bounty.
III. Before I could finish my passage, mouths fastened
to the tips to draw that which fattened cheeks lengthened limbs built my babies’ bones
no blight of him lay between baby’s nose and nuzzled breast.
IV. Before I seal my tribute, I celebrate
each sensation, shift and slide: pleasing pendula sloping toward bedsheets reclining against ribs suspended like upended dirigibles in my stoops to gather garden herbs and bulbs and fresh bouquets—
for they will never bear his stain.
