Academic journal article TriQuarterly

Stir Crazy

Academic journal article TriQuarterly

Stir Crazy

Article excerpt

When I cut open the unripe fig yesterday, I saw its Blossoms curled up, waiting to bloom from the inside. Which is impossible now that it's sitting on the countertop In halves. The fig tree split in the storm and I Dragged away the part that fell, hundreds of Testes-sized figs hanging on. I know when One is ripe it should look like the ripped shirt of A prisoner, and where it tapers, like a man's neck after A hanging. Split open, drip honey on the cut sides, Broil until caramelized, and eat. It's a pattern I've fallen into, something primeval. As if the earliest Hours of the day brought a light I could read by That would make the ordinary words I read - fig, Cut, tree - the things themselves. The transformer Blew out in the storm so I'm out of luck. And the phone's Down now so all Frances will hear when she calls me is The busy signal. I'm busy looking at this fig, trying To figure out what made it at some point years ago not bloom Like the pear or plum or apricot, in the spring, white and Pink, but bloom inside its fruit, so that I eat the flower Whole, disguised. …

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