Warning: This is not a happy poem!
The last time I saw you, you wanted fruit.
I recalled that the time before that you had held my limbs like branches and rustled your fingers through my hair as we danced
So I gave you the finest, the ripest, plumpest, juiciest fruit in all the land I gave you.
That was the last time I saw you.
When I called
and you called me by her name
and I swallowed the bitter seeds of hurt so you would not see how bad I looked in green
and I whispered amidst pained laughter “No, it’s Mariam”
and you couldn’t remember not calling
and you had to go (so soon?)
I should have known what you had done with me.
