Laura Ring


None of the women has ever seen red figs before,
heavy on the tree like moon drag, like monsoon

yet the falling does not surprise them —
glad shrug of a fullness fed up with bough,

with skin. Orbs split on the pavestones,
neck flesh pale and unprotected

as if they have tied their coats around their waists
in defiance of the elements — rain. Sun.

Predators that test their defenses.  So many things
they could have been had they delivered themselves

into hands — jam or galette. Still life with banquet.
Riotous bell, heart full of bees, everything

comes to ground. The women fall to their knees,
bend like roots that know the taste of bruise,

of wild wine.

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