The Fig
Touch me: it is softness of good satin, and when you open me, what an unexpected rose! Do you not remember some king’s black cloak under which a redness burned?
I bloom inside myself to enjoy myself with an inward gaze, scarcely for a week.
Afterward, the satin opens generously in a great fold of Congolese laughter.
Poets have not know the color of night, nor the figs of Palestine. We are both the most ancient blue, a passionate blue, richly concentrating itself because of its ardor.
I spill my pressed flowers into your hand. I create a deaf meadow for your pleasure. I shower you with the meadow’s bouquet until covering your feet. No. I keep the flowers tied – they make me itch; the resting rose also knows this sensation.
I am also the pulp of the Rose-of-Sharon, bruised.
Allow my praise to be made: I nourished the Greeks, and they have praised me less than Juno, who gave them nothing.
transl. Maria Jacketti
Image: Serpent Lady by ~sphinxmuse http://fav.me/dgl7dq
