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harvest
June 14, 2019
the silent bruising of words
rotting as they slip off my tongue,
hanging still in summer’s flyblown heat;
i have the fragility
you’d expect of a dead cicada’s delicate wing.
crush me between your reddened fingers
swollen with the premise of ripened hope.
speechless against the swaths of air
rippling with soiled yellow of sun,
i wait, wound festering,
for you will find me among the spoilt
rind and seed—
forgotten, forbidden fruit.
© Meredith H., Wading River, NY
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