Poetry- Caron Freeborn

Red plums

I bit into the unnoted plum, expecting sharp
disappointment or at best, tolerable
near-sweetness.  My thumb
left an indent which gave me some hope -
bruised fruit isn’t a violent
assault on the tongue.  But that bite –
I’ll never forget that bite – flesh sliding
against gum, the fruit neither resisting
nor clinging – and the surprise, oh that,
of a world where a nectarine isn’t a plum.

The daughter that you wished for 

was younger than I am
with longer hair
and certa...

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