Fig

April 4, 2021

What my mouth means when
it opens is that I want to eat you
alive; to say “touch me”
without all the hesitance.

A fig without its juice is just
the waist of a woman, honey
butter. Something to bind your
jaw in the deepest winter.

Seeds erupt on my tongue in
a raptured applause: I listen.
For the fruit, tender and
sticky, all I can do is hunger.

Dani Janae

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