yellow marrow, squares of nectar sugar

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yellow marrow, squares of nectar sugar

1) the story begins with wasps, and it will begin again, and again: entranced by the aroma of the blooming fig trees, they continue an endless tradition of sacrifice like it was interwoven into their purpose. they crawl into an opening, determined to usher in a new generation, nature judging their innate sensibilities as they move inward, bruising the fruit. meanwhile, nutrients and groundwater pierce through xylem, and burrow into the stems. there is no air inside: trapped and swallowed by the fig, the wasps never break out of the pulp, drowning inside. summer swings over, and the pollinated flower bulbs swell into a seed-filled sac, sunlight begging for the ripeness to burst, erasing the memory of what once was inside.

2) you say you remember what it feels like to be engulfed, to have your body broken down into the beginning of what we all came from, layers of purple skin caving in. offer your body like fruit, and I’ll cradle myself into wine. you find yourself learning how fragile cartilage is—how it moves and breaks, loses the salve to snap. When the sharpness of wings and antennae mellows, and when the fleshy cuticles no longer protrude, mispronounce the gifts you've been offered.

3) twist and pull at the fruit and it will come falling into your hand, an invisible corpse bending into something sweeter: to become something that is not yourself, yet to bear a profound reflection in its existence. in gusts of olive winds, you’ll learn how to fixate, slice your teeth into a fibrous core, and spit out the seeds from your lips to taste honey. when you question temporality, I’ll answer that you never died because you lived, even if there is no trace left of it here.