The mulberries hang from the branches here, not yet fully
ripe, tight little nuggets I pinch but from which I get no juice, the impatience
of spring, making me hunger for nectar not yet in season, if not quite
forbidden then at least not yet available, regardless of how much I might wish
for it, this season always a tease, holding out this I desire to grasp, then
snatching it back, the most ripe riding on the branches too far out of my
reach, even though I hope with the fruit I pinch, I lick, or eat, these will be
just sweet enough, as sweet as I recall them being, and I am bitter at being
bitter when the fruit just won’t do. In season, when the fruit is ripe, I spend
mindless hours here, fingers stained purpose, lips, too, sucking up the juice
that give my life life, sometimes I am sprawled between he spread limbs, reaching
ever deeper into the most moist places where the fruit is always sweet, my
mouth filled with her nectar which drips down my jaw as I drink.
No comments:
Post a Comment