She comes bearing fruit, ancient
by way of Asia, Africa, Alabama,
digging for time, six thousand years
to the other side of the world.
She comes bearing fruit, rock-
serious ovaries birthed without,
breaking, blooming white
as winter leaving overnight.
She comes bearing fruit, ripe,
finger-circled gifts boxed, settled
into levels, for reduced swelling,
burning heart of a late summer sun.
My mother never studied history,
faraway lands, unplanted dirt yields
joy, blooms where she plants, says,
If it grows, it grows.
She comes bearing fruit, asks
Do you like apricots? I don’t
answer, I open to be cured,
recover, plant a seed.
