Madeline Petrucelli
He did not see what he wanted on my tree.
He could not see behind my many tangled branches
with tender fanlike leaves.
He could not see the fruit of my core,
the hidden purple bud ready to bloom,
swollen with sweet juice.
He did not care to wait.
With his words he cursed;
May no one ever eat fruit from you again.
My withered heart, infertile.
The teardrop fruits wrinkle and fall
as soon as they’re born, never ripening.
The once full fig tree on the hill, now decayed.
