My brother’s plum
tree. Borne fruit,
deep purple globes.
They taste good to
us, my father and I.
Cool inside, and
supple. We roam
through the gloaming
prospecting the plums
off the branch,
dipping them from
the damp earth. They
taste good to us.
Silent reverence of the
melodious crepuscle.
Fertile after these
barren years. Our
old dog snuffling
them greedily. My
father and I, kneading
the pits with our
incisors, the sinew
into our craws. Soft
and fragrant and
sweet. They taste
good to us. On the
ground, some plums
bloated and rotted.
The worms have
beaten us to them,
and we pass them over.
He never tasted
his plums. They taste
good to us.