Under the Fig Tree

But what of after-spring

who delights in neither newness

nor its crisp descent?

Honey, suckled

every last drop

a tight-throated memory

of two gaunt hummingbirds.

Dry season again this year:

no water, no fruit.

Broad green leaves

shield sugary jam jars

striated with chartreuse at birth,

Melting into shades of pale mauve,

a dust-covered field of mulberry,

boysenberry, currant, ripening to indigo.

The flower blossoms within,

pollinated by fig wasp which

offers its dissolved, loving body to

next of kin.

Wicked synconium takes a lover,

Wasp-Grave-Child

and I devour her sweetness.

Rush a peccant prayer

in the same breath as

my first saccharine indulgence.

Dance of death and new life

which I will watch

with closed eyes,

alone under my barren fig tree

as it watches me burn.