By GABBY AVENA
A child is a fruit, I am told. Time carves
my center: two bodies twine inside
like aphids around bark. Harvested
fruit, your flesh emerges peach-soft & fuzzy,
sweetness suckling upon release. I shudder:
the taste is fear, or relief. A child is a fruit: from which
a new world is born. A child is a fruit: dropped & bruised
& poisoned. I wonder what creature you might make
of me. Will you listen (soft) for the wind’s lost
whistling? Listen: breath scatters away takes root
out from my earth. Listen: my body is ringing––
please don’t look up to me, anymore.
/
I want to name all my intendeds.
I want to be good, especially to you.*
I am having a hard time looking at children
Lately. I keep thinking about the small trees
Hands make. How your soft palms wrapped
Around only two of my faithless fingers. Did you feel
Safe? How can I keep you / there. There, there,
Comes closer, then leaves. There is a hand
Holding me back. My fingers play
the handle of an axe.
/
Writer | Gabby Avena ’25 | gavena25@amherst.edu
Editor | Luchik Belau-Lorberg ’28 | lbelaulorberg28@amherst.edu