By: Sasheera Gounden

You are bare
A barren womb
Asleep under the fig tree
Within fresh dirt
White clean stones and bits of calcium
Jut from the feet
Of the fig tree
Fresh black beans and greyscale letters
Permanent red circles
The tree bears fig heads
You bear none
A wasteland
Ripe fruit
For the taking
The man clad in wrinkles
smiles