Friars. Red beauties. Elephant hearts
you could pare on your tongue, limbs darkening
below the line. Between each load
of shirts pinned sleeve to sleeve
you’d raise the basket,
bend among the trees.
Some of the plums tightened
like a baby’s fist. You pricked their skins,
packed buckets with sugar and lemon.
Six trays dried on the long bench.
All evening fireflies
haunted you with syncopations,
and when you came to the Santa Rosas,
the fruit of the spirit was patient as knives
sharpened with pumice. Forget what you know.
What should he bring to your hunger
if not his own wrist?
© Karen Rigby