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.
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