sitting to the left of your fig tree
seeds you brought from Italia
over 30 years ago.
I admire the purple stain
that fed your
family- squirrels, anxious grandchild.
the way you peeled the hard
leather skin- i was 6-
taking my favorite decorated spoon
dipping it in the fleshy center
only to have my lips pursed
my tongue slowly sliding on the pulp
retracting quickly under my half
missing teeth
"bruto" I grimaced as I pushed the old
woman's hand away
your house awaiting its new inhabitants
as I pull a fig off its branch
peel its skin right to left
smiling along the way.