Poem 10: Fruit

I don't want to have to strain

to pick

the berries from your

under-ripe bush.

I want them to be so full

of juice and nectar and desire and earthy skin

that they fall off

from heavy passion

right into my palms

and separate and explode into

summer's lush humidity.

I won’t compete

with little girls in heels,

awkwardly trying to strut

like newborn deer

who haven't gotten their footing yet.

I’ll walk so gracefully, so powerfully, so confidently

that you see nothing else when I walk by

and no other pair of legs

make your head turn.

I don't want to ache

with equal parts pain and desire

when you peel an orange,

its dimpled skin spraying

its lust all over your hands.

I want to ache knowing that

you're both the sticky cause and the

syrupy solution

to what hurts.