by Nilanjana Bose

Created on: January 21, 2010   Last Updated: December 28, 2011

The fruits turn out a bit too bitter, or sometimes a bit too tart
For eating in a salad mix. But then, when cooked they fall apart
The glistening segments whole yet mushed, the colours like that of blood,
A clot cooked into resembling an injured but still beating heart.

But the sap and juices spurt and run down my hands in a rushing flood
Overflow my small beakers, soak my feet and into the mud.
Perhaps if I could collect it all, might it make a handsome wine?
Maybe it’s not for plucking alone, but with its branch and leaves and buds.

If I bothered to read the tree, verse by verse and line by line,
She would tell me in clear terms which parts to pluck or call mine.
Maybe the fruit’s the way it is because the tree bears me a grudge,
Because I override her right and grab fruits before they are assigned.

There are things on her, and beyond, which I must never touch
But I am always too quick to reach or to jump in and harshly judge.
Always the judgement. Always the blame.  Always the guilt. Playing the part
Of tetchy hands frittering what’s given, and then asking for much too much.

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