I am a plum—
      io sono la tua prugna
and I fit in your palm,
in its tender arch
      upturned, stately
and I curl in its pits
of lines that quake
with the warmth of my weight.

My flesh grazed by your teeth,
      a hymn that carries
across the gleaming sea
and intertwines with the tempest
that soaked your black curls
but not your mouth—
      your mouth dripping
with my plum juice.