Anna Lynch

From the Nook of the Fig Tree

“From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.”  –Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

I see what you mean now, Sylvia.

From the nook of the fig tree,

I watch myself split

by my life-lines, branched paths on my hands

grow infant white buds

swell to scarlet and gold stars

into fruit as purple

as clotted blood.

Spring is just a shuffling of the tarot cards.

“A summer calm laid its soothing hand

over everything, like death.”

Countless people dangle

like figs from the branches:

A young up-and-coming writer

hangs green and impatient

for her words to be tasted,

Sun-soaked yellow splotches

dot an artist’s body

with remnants of painted labor,

A cosmopolitan woman speaks

honeyed tongues:

ficus carica, ich bin du.

In this balmy hollow I sit serene,

eye figs as they ripen

and wait,

and wait,

and wait.

I forgot no God can stop

the turn of the season.

Yellow leaves bury

a waste of fallen bodies,

a shallow grave filled

of fig wine, of blood

red vinegar.

But still I wait

for the final card to flip,

for the sweetest fig to plop,

into my outstretched palm.

“Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind of snow,

should numb and cover them.”

Between frostbitten branches, mocks

Which fig do you illuminate?

ach du, The Fool.

Anna Lynch is a sophomore at SUNY Geneseo studying creative writing and intercultural and critical studies through the English and communication majors. She is from Liverpool, New York, and enjoys exploring issues in social identity and injustice through both of her areas of study. She hopes to one day become a clinical social worker after collecting a handful of memories from travels abroad.