The ripe ones get picked

piled on silver flatware

for gawking and admiration.

Exquisite enough to be devoured.

The ripe ones end up on bumpy tongues.

White canines cut through and between gorgeous bubbles,

form black blood pools in unhinged mouths,

stain pink gums.

The meal reveals itself with every barbed grin

at its sweetness.

Farmer is praised for dislocating the good ones,

before burning the bramble.

The rejects get lit.

React to flames—

to sun and water they’ve never tasted.

The rejects burst into dry bits and pieces,

sprout arms,

grasp at sweetness.

They endeavor to escape the burden of being strange fruit.