The hunger artist
Peels back her skin
Layer after layer
Sweet flesh falls at her feet,
Until there is nothing left
But the ripe mush
Of the heart.
The bruised peach
That pressed too tight
Against your lips,
As your teeth grazed the surface
The wound where the essence spilled out.
Bitter fruit
That clings to your fingers,
Binds your hands.
Soft fruit
That fell from the vine,
Upon the muddy banks of the Nile.
Lost fruit
That suffered
The footsteps of the fall,
Crushed beneath the weight
Of the Cyclonic seasonal change,
That leaves hands empty
Reaching for a fleeting moment.
Fruit that shrivels at the touch of winter,
Once so plump and beading
Under a harvest moon,
Now fades to brown puss
Bleeding.
What was left to rot
Will never revive,
But stays pulped on the chopping board
Abandoned on the vine for spiders to devour
Or soaks back into mud
To become the molded clay
We use to build our lives.