Brown fruit by Autumn Hill
There are not many brown fruits
So, I will become one.
Though I will not be hung from a tree
Or be tilled from the ground,
I will pray every night
and fold myself up to convince
Mother God to mold me round
and drop me from her hands,
into mine again.
I will become a brown fruit to molt
To peel my skin away
And distance myself from the burden
With each flake of fruit flesh.
With my ball of a body in my palm
I hold all my skin between twiddling fingers
And drop it all.
Though when I begin to pass through the body of a deer
Who picked me up on the way to the spring,
A quick moment of sustenance with a beating pit nestled into the center.
I am chewed, eaten, regurgitated, and chewed and eaten again.
And the hunter dressed in his surroundings
sneakily still and focused
Shoots the buck
Takes it home with me unknowingly inside
Skins its brown coat and eats its venison
Throws out the stomachs.
I will find that my successors will still be brown.