…And all at once you find yourself
to be the lowest hanging fruit.
The weevils have already found you,
burrowing holes into your coat, your pockets oozed, but you hung on.
Hung on to the branch, not attempting to escape or be found,
but because that’s what one does, until that moment…
…when you’ve outgrown your own skin,
the heaviness of life pulls you down…
…and you are plucked from safety and security,
terror and torment, from the branch that has fed you.
Admired and scorned for your unique deformities,
your narrow top and too plump bottom.
Fingernails plunge through you, torn into segments and smiles,
seeds burst forth into an awaiting damp earth, juices expelled in the ruckus fight.
…And you are tossed as refuge,
tonight’s feasts by slugs, snails and ants, tomorrows leftovers for the birds.
Never to be the pucker on someone’s tongue.
How utterly delicious!
–Barbara L. Lazarony
