Wasps walk the fruit
fallen into grass.
The same variety
planted in valleys a hundred years ago
by farmers in dirt-stiffened dungarees.
Or so I wish to believe. I am drunk
on the words of summer:
Brandywine, Celeste, Anise Swallowtail, Cloudless Sulfur.
Outside the window,
figs sag on their branches,
swooning with heat.
I am barefoot in the kitchen
halving and handing them over,
their tender flesh close to jellied.
I can never have enough
of the delicate, violet husk of
evening in summer,
walking hand in hand
with my eight-year-old daughter
to deliver our surfeit bartered
to the neighbor, figs
Of the shimmer of the swimming pool
laid atop the surface
of my days; and the way
the woman my daughter will someday become
is already housed
in her narrow-hipped body.
The cup of summer is so full it almost overspills its lip.