black madeira

(ficus carica)

I once pocketed a fig from the Black Madeira that twisted up the stone wall in my grandmother’s greenhouse. We were told not to touch that tree, but I could not resist the honeyed-flesh, the feel of the flowers clustered in the mouth. Waiting until dark I salvaged the sweet theft and took a bite, felt the syrup coat my brushed teeth. My brother caught me, told me how each fig was the burial chamber of a wasp, souring the taste as every seed became a thorax. Picking his shirt from the laundry I wiped my lips on the sleeve, staining the white cotton, laying the blame.