Oh, Fig
My fig tree is rotting.
Leaves boiled egg yolk, folding inward on themselves.
A smattering abandon the limbs
to find life in the ground.
Fruit hangs like a sagging tit,
bruised black as a girl’s eye.
I planted a whole orchard of them.
Yet my fig tree is rotting.
Perhaps the vinegar flies knew
these sugars would collapse in on themselves.
They lay claim to fruit
I never tasted.
I plucked it green to show the other trees.
Never pruned. Never watered the roots.
Just a pot swollen with chemicals
forcing sweetness before its season.
No answers here.
Just breath and ink.
Only always.
With love,
Sutton