I dream of finding my fruitful arm, poised to create
hanging with ripe fruit about to fall softly onto the paper
their skin will slowly rupture
pale orange flesh collapsing roundly
white and creamy
flesh feels cool and soft; it’s gently scented, wet and cold;
you are
spilling seeds all over the paper, they’re light brown in ovoid cases and slipping
futures distilled in those moments you put in your mouth: you tell me: these seeds are promises
fruit hangs from the skin on the lower part of my arms I put my arms out in front of me, they rest in space over the paper
Kate Walters
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