Strange Fruit (Interlude)

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This black bulbous fruit tempted all
drooping the branches, shiny skin refracting the sun’s rays.
Some white-fingered Adultery called out and smiled
then enclosed our throats and burrowed deep inside
whispering blame as it settled its juices above the shore.

I dream of the fructose that flood the branches above.
Full-bodied and flavourful
like wine on a Monday:
Delicious regret.

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We’ll be taking a break for a week; the next poem will be out on 2nd February.

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