When I reach to select the fruit
appearing most plump and ripe
my thumb plunges in, straight through
skin, meat, seeds, core
until it meets my fingers
creating a perfect circle.
Its all beautiful pulp in my palm.
No mold or rot here. I hold
a handful of sweet stickiness,
a shock of soft flesh. The surprise
forces a small ha of breath
to escape me, a moment of delight
that I then extend to you.
Not as temptation. More
as proof. Reflexively, instinctively,
I share this sensation
and offer you connection—
thinking that we share a rib,
a mythology. Any knowledge
for or against this is a fruit
I have yet to bite.
Amy Wray Irish grew up immersed in Chicago’s diverse arts scene, then traded Midwest winters for the Rocky Mountains. She has been published both online and in print journals, most recently with Punch Drunk Press and Waving Hands (forthcoming). Irish is a member of Lighthouse Writers, Columbine Poets, and Turkey Buzzard Press; her chapbooks include Creation Stories (2016) and The Nature of the Mother (2019).
This poem is from the Thought For Food anthology,
a poetry collection benefiting Denver Food Rescue.
You can purchase a copy of the book here.
One thought on “Eve – Amy Wray Irish”
On Fri, Dec 4, 2020 at 7:42 PM South Broadway Ghost Society wrote:
> South Broadway Ghost Society posted: ” Photo: Louis Hansel When I reach to > select the fruitappearing most plump and ripemy thumb plunges in, straight > throughskin, meat, seeds, coreuntil it meets my fingerscreating a perfect > circle. Its all beautiful pulp in my palm.No mold or rot here. ” >