The Fig

There was a fig tree
in the sick room
window, but none of this
was on our minds –
Only how the seed
is born into equilibrium
with the deadly wasp
that lives within its walls.
The fruit, a pestilence
of blood red syconia,
is cased within its sleek,
leathered mask,
hiding under finger-like leaves
that grow low to the ground.
It was this fruit only,
and its sweetness,
that announced the patch of blood
on the sheets – stain of a fit,
not a fruit – breathed deep into
the sunset of his last meal,
while all around us
the sky was burning
red on the dark, ripe
skin of the horizon.

— Iris Law


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Filed under Poetry, Vol 2 Issue 1

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