by Sara Judy

I will call you plum and overripe peach, 
I will call you a stone fruit, heart pit, bitter pith
sour flesh, burst apart fruit, sun warm fruit
I will call you cherry-that-scrapes-its-thin-skin-open,
apricot-so-sweet-it-offers-sweetness-to-the-air,
ready to pick now, just right now, three for a dollar the
market is about to close now, no time to feel with your fingers
every one in the box with the right pressure to know—oh 
the plums, the plums, the plums that bruise against each other
the plums that will not make it to the fridge the plums 
the plums that press back under my hand, an offering offering:

I will call you every summer ripe thing I will 
I will call you every juice running down
I will refuse to lick it clean

Sara Judy is a poet and PhD candidate in English the University of Notre Dame, where she studies contemporary U.S. poetry and poetics, and religion. Her writing has appeared in Adroit, EcoTheo Review, Psaltery & Lyre, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter @sarajudym.