Even Now

The pain? It’s not so bad. As the cold rain falls, I write the words withered fig,

After the one I saw yesterday, still clinging to the bough. What made me pick it?

I’d tell you if I knew. Even now, hard and brown, it’s out there on the ground.

Even now, as tough and wet as hell. Even now, a piece of peace the sky holds down.

The size of my thumb. Come spring, I think I’ll be a plum. A playful god. A little girl.

December 11, 2019

William Michaelian