I don’t know when they stopped noticing us.
I think someone once said
we should take the plum tree down.
It plummeted as naturally to the ground
as a body hit with a bullet.
Life gave me plums, and then
ripped me open and watched me bleed.
Bodies breaking the surface.
We left the dead where they lay,
squashed beneath the bare feet of children and dogs playing.
I hate taut plums with ruby red centers.
I picked them. I ate them.
Now I am unable to ripen lest I bleed again.
Plums on the ground,
soft and spoiling beneath our feet.
