Chede (Wild Figs)

Some fruits were not meant for cutting
Formed when stones were soft and
Birth was still a kind of bursting

See how wild fig flesh bruises when cut
By these alien knives,
Unschooled in surgical assault

No, that firm tart flesh next to skin
Was not made to greet the moist of our mouths
But for holding, yielding to the trembling tear
Of fingers, arching back to offer
Its swells and scents for succour

To some woman returning from her fields
Sapped but readying
For an evening of chores
And the return of a husband
Who will not ask or care about
The right way to eat figs