An­gela Carr

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The Truth About Figs

Each ripe fig has at its heart a de­voured wasp: a soli­tary fe­male, to pol­li­nate the fruit’s in­verted blos­som; she crawls in at the meet­ing of the bracts, the os­ti­ole: a hole so small it rips her an­ten­nae, splits the tec­tonic opac­ity of skele­tal wings; sky-bereft and un­done, she none­the­less tends the fig’s dark gar­den, its minute in­flo­res­cence - strokes stigma, seeds sta­men, tucks her eggs into the styles of ovule flo­rets - and set­tles into death: the enzy­matic gall of her own de­flow­er­ing. Sink your tongue into the burst of pur­ple skin; mouth­ful of fleshy sweet­ness, born of a sting.

Po­etry Com­pe­ti­tion Third Place 2016

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