Bruised Fruits of the Holy Spirit
I’d never been dissected before,
but that night I learned
how to peel myself apart
under a bruised and yellow moon.
I’d been too young to know
the exposed bellies of fruit
pits glistening raw
with juice and sorrow,
but I became a woman
with a pomegranate heart.
Set me out alone on the streets
as I bleed ruby seeds
and I’ll tell you what it’s like to be consumed.
It feels like thunder shaking the apple tree
like eyes waiting for your flesh to ripen,
open hungry stares dripping dark.
They pluck out the seeds of my heart
one by one
and under a false sun I sour
in profane communion.
I’m not sure where my home is anymore. Growing up it was waves moaning in the dark, salt digging into my tender lips, over-ripe lilikoi falling onto the driveway. I was too pale, watching the dark radiance of exposed legs and breasts soft and round as mangoes, sprouted like magic on a sweet sixteen. I was never a yell-out-the-window girl, catcalls crashing onto sun-bleached and cracked pavement, a bitter symphony among the reggae and ninety-degree heat. I drove and drove under skies so thick with stars you could barely see the moon. Everything was so green I felt my tongue rotting. Mold crept over my shoes, the salt in my hair drove me to madness. Now my second home is four seasons. Fall, electrically cool, winter silent and trembling over the lake, spring like I’ve never seen it, shocking me into tempestuous frenzy. I go running back to warm, back to bare feet on burning roads. I watch billowing clouds of burning cane sugar settling, breathless as hope, on the horizon. The tsunami sirens wail, and I sweat fruit juices, crown myself with orchids and tears—it’s time to cross the ocean now.
Little Girl Lover
Loving you was like waiting for rain.
If we had loved each other,
I know exactly how it would have been:
sharpened kisses, sharpened loss.
You, taking to the sea,
I, too young, too wanting,
tongue riddled with bee stings
over your smile.
I used to think it would be
a jacaranda tree love,
baptized in purple flowers,
set to the thickening air
of a late-May Sunday,
storm clouds gathering like a blessing.
I thought it would be breathless
how beautiful it was that you could never be mine,
as distant as the moon,
filling my head with spring longing.
I cast myself
as the patron saint of missing you
in the hot dusk
of early summer
sang hymns to your eyes,
your breathless hope of rain.
I have different loves now,
loves like honey,
sweet and bleeding,
I’m a bit less of a child now,
smarter lover, a better sinner,
perusing the raw taste of lightning
bright and hungry,
on my parched lips.
My love is gold and melting on my tongue,
electric on my fingertips.
I’ve left my saintly waiting behind,
now I’m a witch to burn,
heretic, my soul on fire.
I’m still afraid that one day I’ll kiss you,
if only to taste the ocean,
if only to taste the rain in your eyes,
let you extinguish me,
carve out a space in my skull again
and send me back to my altar.
The end is coming, I know,
and even though I don’t pray anymore,
I beg God that when we say goodbye,
you will not peel me back to my core,
About the author:
Laura Mayron is a student at Wellesley College but was born and raised in Maui Hawaii. When not studying Spanish and English literature, she works as the poetry editor for The Wellesley Review. She has won Wellesley College's Florence Annette Wing Prize for Poetry, and has previously been published in Vagabond City and Fractal. If she could go back in time, she'd have a drink with Spanish surrealists.