If fruit were in me
they would be ovaries,
each seed a waste
piece, crystallized,
attracts bees
and I obliged to swallow their
harmonic bodies.

And now
a white bib
binds me, the milk
of which fruit
dares soil my immaculate body? It is wise
to leave the stain
and the mark of this fruit,
It is wise, also
to take a bite
of it
to embrace the swarm
to capture
to pretend I am
the captor.