Fruitful Arm

 

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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