Sylvia talks of fig trees and of the pain of being finite.
We sit, we eat, we watch figs cling, ripen, fall, decay.
And we too cling, to the branches, to each other,
To the hope that there will always be figs left uneaten,
Always be room left in our mouths.
I want to have a thousand arms and a thousand mouths and a thousand years to eat figs until I burst
(no/and)
I want to be fungal rot, spreading through sap until every fig is wasted
(no/and)
I want to sit beneath the leaves, a corpse in my fig-root cradle,
And slowly be remade into fruit.
There is love by creation
Love by nurturing
Love by curation
Love by symbiosis
Love in the form of two leaning cards
And love by consumption.
There is something I can’t quite articulate, can’t quite remember,
About transmuting the imperfect into perfection,
Into beauty,
Into togetherness,
Into the infinite,
Carried forward and incorruptible.
