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Tuesday, 20 August 2013

An Ordinary Apple

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.


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