Plums to the Garden of Eden. Their flesh
so like the tart, meaty flesh of us.
Apples to the Earth, the crunch and rubbing
clean of fuzzy teeth, the one sharp taste
that got us all into trouble.
Oranges to the sky, mottled rinds filled
with eleven crescent moons cloistered
neatly in an orb.
To hell with the savory.
I want fruit, delicate meat ripened
to protect seeds and stones to create more
sweet fruit. Beautiful grasp toward
survival. The cracked pink inside
a peach cradles the hard pit,
an oval starburst— two hands almost
in prayer. Seeds with faith travel
on the wind. Some go ballistic and burst.
But I want the raspberry, blackberry,
strawberry— the flesh that needs a beating
heart, a pile of shit to spring up from.