The fig tree in the garden is ripening faster than we know what to do with –
Figs lie on the counter like a school of purple fish.
In a box by the door, more are pressing down.
The weight of fig upon fig puts rips into their skin.

It is a strange room. There is nothing but figs except ourselves,
And we pull our boots on quickly when we leave.
Mud dries in footprints on the floor.

I went picking and the tree was low over the ground.
I admit, I mostly went to climb.
I felt underwater when my head was in the bower and entirely forgot
My sticky hands; you lifting
A fig up to your mouth, many teeth. ∎

Words by Lucie Richter-Mahr. Art by Eloïse Fabre.