where the writers are
harvest

i once cradled a soft-furred kiwi
it's delicate center
an invitation to swallow it whole
another time it was
the thin green shell of a mango
pulled aside to reveal
undulating strands of saffron flesh
wanting to be bitten

i remember the pungent smell
of wild raspberries whose juices
threatened to burst over my fingertips
the minute they were touched

and then the winter pear soft from steam
drizzled with honey and just a touch
of fresh ginger for some bite

and oh the glistening  plum
perfumed syrup seeping through
tart black skin

a grove of mulberry love
staining my lips and cheeks
a bowl of honeydew wedges
resting between my thighs

ah, the orchards i have walked
the fruit i have relished
the mouth-watering fantasies i have
about men i wanted to, but
never did, love

left on the vine
waiting for a better season