A dainty, speckled orb, a subtle fig,
pink as the pith of an idea, a plum
gall sheds shocking purple blood when cut.
You stain your palm wondering where it’s from.
You peer up into sieving green. Ripe nuts
crack beneath your boot. You take a twig
and pry; a larva, fishbelly-white and stiff,
tumbles from the core of purple flesh.
Its larval stillness, sheer and cold, is the stuff
of fear. It chases you into sleep like a wish.
That night, you envision every fruit on earth
buzzing, cracking open to release streams
of wasps. You must expect some awful birth
from every ripe, inviting, gentle dream.