One Saturday there was a fig.
I bought it from the Turkish shop
on impulse with the things for dinner.
The children were away with their father.
The fig had yielded still in its bag
to pressure from some calamata
olives, and it sat in my hand,
split open. Its insides were implausibly
pale, the colour of a shell, both pink
and yellow. This flesh was loaded
with the tiniest seeds, and strands like hair
or spermatazoa; around it, foamy-edged,
sat a velvet, veined ribbed skin
of the most delectable colour, not purple,
not black, but similar to an aubergine.
It swelled in my hand like a little
pregnant belly, but gave to the touch,
and when I stroked it
it felt to my fingers like a part of me.
If you've any comments on this poem, Katy Evans-Bush would be pleased to hear from you.