my sister is picking fruit, tummy aching
with the weight of a second basket;
my mind three steps to the left
of my skull,
i ask for pomegranates
(the sun is dead that watched me
last time i ate.)
my sister says:
"there are no strawberries"
my sister says:
"there are too many raspberries"
i need something
the size of
my fist, bursting
with red cells and life
to swell my chest, ground me
here
like a phonebox, my heart
can barely hold one person
before we start to bruise each other,
peach soft, blushing
dark and aching,
as each mistake rots through
to the pit of my stomach
juice runs down her
fingers like old blood
plasma gilded, scabbed
and spilled, please
give me thicker skin,
cake me in rind and membrane
to hold the magma in.
