I hold the cloudy, dark plum, heavy in anticipation, weak from its own weight and firm skin. My lips surround it, privately tasting the sweet juice. I pull back dripping, wiping my chin, and watch the orange, soft golden, brown flesh expose. The skin now forgiving. My hand peels the curtain of skin away, holding the drape with two fingers, raising the plum back to my mouth, the plum no longer refusing.
About the AuthorMaria Claire Leng studies poetry at Bennington College with David Lehman, Lucie Brock-Broido, Susan Carlisle, and April Bernard, where she received the first Jane Kenyon Scolarship for Poetry. Her work has appeared in Grand Street. When asked about the source of inspiration for this poem, she had this to say: "Anger brought this poem on; the actors simply took the stage, as did the sultry evening."
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