Friday, June 28th, 2019
She is no longer a young woman.
Blood still flows, but less red, less rich,
and finally, she understands
and starts laughing.
As she opens her mouth
a branch issues forth
as if from her belly,
covered with little crackly leaves and blood-red apples,
firm, and imperfectly round and shiny
as if polished by hand.
She laughs, delighted, and looks down
and sees her legs become a pear-tree trunk
and when she wiggles her roots with joy
more than a minyan of fruit fall
unbruised, perfectly ripe.
She laughs, amazed,
and when she lifts her arms
they become branches of an orange tree,
laden, heavy, ready to be plucked.
And from the tips of her fingers spring clusters of grapes
more purple than red, with seeds.
She laughs, loving this change of life,
and from her belly button creep tomato vines
with oval plums
the perfect red
while her nipples burst
that she will gift to every child she knows.
and her fruit shakes like a windstorm.
When pieces fall
she is replenished,
and when she squats with her weight
she bears honeydew,