by John Belk

Eating fresh figs from a tree
beside Bayou Dorcheat,
I think about my belly swelling
but my hands keep shoveling figs
between my greedy, grinding molars—
my mouth moaning with the meter of the mill-mill-gulp
until my insides split with ripeness
and my heart explodes,
spilling sweetened pulp along the fat bayou’s mudbanks,
my juice-covered face falling flat beneath the duckweed
like a stone.


[Check out John’s back porch wisdom]