“The tree has fruit,”
Hands sticky,
Face smeared,
My stomach turning
“The fruit is rotten,”
Laughing, another in your hand
The first bite unearths no worm, no insect
Only the soft, wet peach-flesh
You’d expect from one of us.
“Isn’t it sour?
Isn’t it bitter?
Does the aftertaste not resemble
Pesticidal poison?”
Quiet now,
Only the sound of leaves shaking,
The pull of branch and the wobbly return,
The fruit’s fuzz against my fingers,
My lips.
I do not take a bite.

All you ever wanted was an entry,
Your teeth exposed and desperate
Face pressed against the keyhole
I run my fingers along your grooves
And provide you with warmth in the frosty night.
The door remains shut.

The sun rose again that day,
At this I was surprised
My raw hands reached up
To cradle it and
Pulled it from the skies.
The sun rose again that day,
It seemed like a mistake.
I held it closely
As I cried,
Fearful it would break.
The sun rose again that day,
It never explained why
But in my heart I knew I
Loved the sun
As much as it loved I.