If I were a ripe fig
and you split me open with your delving thumbs
to see the sweet and sticky flesh inside,
and feel the grit of seeds between your teeth,
could any of the those spilt ever swell and sprout
to grow a big, lolloping, female tree,
like an old grey aunty with flabby arms?
I can’t figure out what fruit I am to you?
You halve me like some desert pear.
To you, I’m the fruiting body of the monstera plant
with stinging spikes hidden
in the fuzzy folds
that paralyze your tongue with a tiny, perfect pain,
though I always dreamed of being more like an
ordinary apple, that, cleanly dissected,
reveals a star.