Basket of Figs

    Bring me your pain， love. Spread

    it out like fine rugs， silk sashes，

    warm eggs， cinnamon

    and cloves in burlap sacks. Show me

    the detail， the intricate embroidery

    on the collar， tiny shell buttons，

    the hem stitched the way you were taught，

    pricking just a thread， almost invisible.

    Unclasp it like jewels， the gold

    still hot from your body. Empty

    your basket of figs. Spill your wine.

    That hard nugget of pain， I would suck it，

    cradling it on my tongue like the slick

    seed of pomegranate. I would lift it

    tenderly， as a great animal might

    carry a small one in the private

    cave of the mouth.