fruitseed

My mother has had her last child—
that must be very strange to bear.

Meanwhile, I am so full of life,

/belligerent seeds of child/

kicking and crying
to be born out of the little grapefruit
of my womb.

But there’s no one I want
to raise them with.
There’s no one who I want to let
harvest my small, sour fruit
and kiss the bitterness left there
by ancient fear.

So, the fruitseed babies lie heavy
within me, coagulating over time
into stones. Burnishing, they settle
over even more of a while
into pearls, so that on the day
when I die,
whole yards of beauty will be able
to be drawn out of me,
white, balled, and whole
with a knife.







(sometime in Nov.?)