Thursday Poetry

Fresh Figs

By Billie Daddario

I picked Sylvia Plath’s figs.

I ate them till I had my fill.

I saved some on my writing desk

In a silver bowl to look at, or eat later

I wasn’t sure which.

I soon discovered what Sylvia knew about figs.

Eating them all will make you ill.

I ate all the figs that Sylvia could name,

And then I ate some more.

It filled my life,

but left my soul much like the bowl empty.

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