one of the figs at the bottom of the basket had molded,
and the girl who left two years ago threw it
at the cast iron fence between the yard and the noisy street
lumpy leaves now wind between the bars of the fence demanding to be trained toward the light
and I oblige the audacious tree
erupting from the lead poisoned clay.
the insides of the fruit look like brains.
by Rosh Hashanah the tree has broken through the fence and the landlord is complaining
that the rent is late
and that we never asked if we could plant a fig tree
but the brains in the fruit don’t believe in fences
or that lead or clay could ever stop their lumpy leaves