figue, figue

From the rift in the fig skin flows,
in noiseless explosion, a dense
ruby jam–But those aren’t seeds!
I remember the other children,
the augurers, would cry: Wasp eggs!
Figs are wasp nests, and the eggs
mimic seeds, to hatch in the throat,
you know, to sting the esophagus,
a million, million times.

Now, the pith of the fruit is a luminous red between fingers.
I sit unmoving,  afraid to eat.

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