::figs::

// 

your baby is about as big as a fig,

the internet told me.

we used

to have fig trees.

they don’t work anymore.

my mum collected buckets

of figs – they sat

on the doorstep

fermenting. ‘i’m going to make jam,’

she would say,

but they’d fester and smell

and the guests would laugh

she’d say ‘shit, i better throw those things out.’

‘i’d kill for a fuckin’ big mac,’ said the girl,

showing me photos of her boyfriend

and her, standing on bondi beach.

tanned and glamorous

with neck tattoos

i said they both looked beautiful.

pleased with this,

she put her phone away,

and smiled at my stomach.

sometimes my dad

would express his disdain

as the plump fruit smacked the windscreen.

their sugary stains would have to be cleaned

before the juices hardened.

otherwise they’d become streaks like spit

that felt like toffee

and stuck like wax under fingernails.

sometimes i ate them (the figs)

with a spoon

in the same way you would eat a kiwi.

these days i eat kiwis

in the same way you would eat an apple.

it seems less wasteful,

how it all disappears.

last night, i became annoyed

at the shallow way my spacebar presses down

(cordial spill earlier in the evening, 

no one’s fault in particular)

i crammed my nails under the edge

and lifted to reveal its innards.

little organs of silver chips

lined

with golden markings.

how vulnerable it all is,

under there.

‘it has fingernails,

under there,’ 

she said, then the lady

called her name.

//