Stonefruit

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I’ve always loved stonefruit 

because it has a prize in the middle.

A little pit of promise nestled in the flesh

and I know you’re not supposed to

but I eat it every time

even though they say it can make you sick

because I thought it could make something grow inside of me.

It’s hard going down;

the tip of the pit 

carves its way down my throat

like a spider’s crawl. 

I choke. 

But I drink a lot of water

and lie down afterwards 

someplace nice in the sun,

because I read somewhere that’s how you make it take root.

A spider weaves its web and rests and waits,

like me.

They say that waiting makes you good,

waiting makes things happen,

and besides, it's nice to sit,

to press my stomach,

feeling vainly for the lumps

that fail to produce themselves beneath my fingertips.

The stones never did grow,

they never came out either.

Eventually I stopped wondering where they went. 

The spider devours her husband 

I recoil,

lurching, sick,

I spew the remnants of a dream onto the pavement.

I don’t remember eating that.