by Ashira Morris
I’m waiting for the tram, picking plums
but really what I’m doing is looking, longingly
higher up where most of the fruit is sitting ripe.
A man approaches —
bald but for a crown of white hair, lightweight vest, faded tattoos
of an old sailor, two breasty mermaids with red lips.
Do you want me to pull down the branch, he asks
and I say yes please thank you
and he does
and suddenly I’m ensconced in the leaves, enveloped by the tree.
I pick the plums one at a time, each a little ball of orange red fruit.
That’s all for now, I say, and he starts to let go— then reconsiders.
He pulls the branch back down
takes matters into his own hands. His wide fingers
grab fistfuls of fruit and drop them in my bag.
Just as many fall to the ground and there are errant leaves and twigs,
all component parts of the tree are now there, in my bag, in pieces.
What a joy, to seize something entirety in pursuit of the one sweet part,
the part that could be crushed by a closing palm.
What a delight, to move with abandon, to ignore precision,
to choose clear cutting over particular picking.
Could my own hands claim what’s in front of them so confidently?
Could they take so completely?
I run into the street to catch the tram,
whose yellow doors are already swinging open.
Ashira Morris is a freelance journalist based between Sofia, Bulgaria and Tallahassee, Florida. She is passionate about local environments and the forces that shape them. Her reporting has been published by Foreign Policy, Artforum, National Geographic, and 99 Percent Invisible. When she’s in Sofia, you can find her at the Mahala bookstore recommending short story collections and editing the Flying Paper zine.
