perfect plum

Even at times when the air is dry and
My neck is stiff from the night before, I
Know the plum just might be my salvation.
Sweet, ripe stone fruit—perfect pregnant lady
Sitting next to me in a purple bowl.
I want to peel her like a cucumber,
But I can’t—her face is a thick, sticky
Flow of skin—exposed to the juice inside.
I plunge to open this tight sphere of mine—
Bite in so ripe and nice, juice dripping down.
Bursts, spraying fruit like a poetic clown.
Vibrating, electric lava glistens,
Paints syrupy smiles on my chin and brow.

Yes, the plum just might be my salvation.
Ripe, precious stone fruit—perfect pregnancy
Sitting next to me in a purple bowl.