First Fruit

The first green fruit

hides among leaves.

The oranges feel hard

as limes, the skin

blister-tight. Soon cool nights

will loosen flesh into ripeness

and suffuse fruit

with a golden blush.

Once, as a child, I plundered

the Duchess tree in our garden.

Pale yellow with rosy stripes,

the apples glittered on the tree.

I knew the colors needed to deepen,

but I could not resist

the fruit’s speckled beauty.

I devoured apple after apple,

my teeth piercing crisp skin,

my tongue curling from tart flesh.

I could not keep myself from feeding,

even as the first pangs of sickness

stung my side. My mother found me,

cores strewn about my black boots,

my dress stained with juice.

I will never forget her palm

pressing forgiveness

into my forehead,

nor my heart’s dull pulse already

heavy with the waiting before me.