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My mother ate plums so far left of ripe
they made my eyes water if I bit into one.
Hard, barely any juice, tart and still crunchy,
I’d persevere through the fruit so we didn’t waste,
so I could be like her:
seeking pain,
denying herself anything sweet,
refusing to allow anything soft into her realm,
except me.
A punishment of plums.
We arrive home to a gallon Ziploc of
plums from a neighbor, nearly bursting with ripeness,
the skins eking their hold on the flesh
sweet, running with flavor so luscious it streams
right down my chin and into the sink as I take bites.
Now, I eat the overripe plums so we don’t waste,
so my daughter can have the sweet, but not runny fruit:
seeking joy,
denying myself anything unjust,
refusing to allow anything cruel into my realm,
except truth.
A pleasure of plums.