Fig Poem (or “I Used to be Engaged”)

You resigned yourself to blue–

where you’re almost done loving, and this one is your last 

(make it good/make it count/make it safe)

When you grow up in the cold,

any warm breath will set your skin stinging, so 

it hurts, even lukewarm 

your fingers itch toward hot

your lips are blue at the edges

(this can be concealed)

the starving run bloody at the mouth, pluck a fig 

something tiny, still green 

some give beneath your fingers,  

like a baby’s skull.