THE FIG

That very morning after the guests said,
“Your branches are as splendid as paradise,”
the order was given: Cut them off!
Now my clenched fists fall to earth,
their anger evaporating in the sun.

I should have contracted inside myself.
A war is taking place in the yard.  Bitter as wolves,
man and tree mark off their sovereign borders.

I see through his eyes: shadows of drops on the path,
a thicket advancing toward him.
But how to stop?

A garden, darkness-filled mouth,
its eyes lids blinking,
its lust-spotted stamens drawn out,
setting fire to the ice of the jasmine.

Did he invade in order to heal,
to illuminate me to the edge of my darkness?
Now how will I fight on behalf of the garden?
I wrap myself in the shadow of my broken ribs.

THE FIG