I will never be ripe in the fields

again. By ripe I mean fallen

from the tree. Light enough

for you to hurl from the meadow

so hard it sinks your eyes

shut. Soft enough your touch

alone is a bruise I wear

like a blanket, a shawl

for prayer. I am more pit

than flesh now. Nectar

and a mouthful of seeds.

I will never be the taste

crashing your tongue like waves,

but when you think of me,

you’ll pucker still.