Figs

Come, let me touch your sweetness, handsome love! This secret seed-purse in its tender skin, Soft to the touch, packed to its hidden brim With potency, enchants me. Look, above Our heads the fig-leaves break the evening sun With shady patterning, and when the cool Of moonlight comes and we are slaked and full With our abundance, when we have begun To fail, Ill gather figs and watch you eat. Jealous of them within your bearded mouth, Ill kiss you, taste the spilled seed on your breath, Touching your lips with tongue-tip, Ill entreat More love. The figs poor purse is split and gone But your sweet power to spend goes on and on.

Alison Prince