Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-seven
Spring 2015
 
A quintessential fruit poem for The New Yorker
                                            -for Allie Marini Batts

Jay Sizemore

When I masturbate, I ejaculate apple seeds,
into my palm like dead ants piling
on a poisoned sunflower’s disc.
I wither….
I am not a tree.
There’s a watermelon growing in my stomach,
because my grandfather said so,
because my youthful machine gun mouth
has been known to misfire.
I severed my arm with a bandsaw
at the bicep
to see if weeds would sprout
where the droplets fell,
to see if the color red would grow
into tomato plants or pomegranates,
but my blood evaporated into a cloud of gnats,
as if my body were an overripe peach
filled with cinnamon dust like muscular rust,
and I could feel my skin darkening,
pitting with decay, seeping sweet juice for sweat.
I dug a hole with my fingers
in the blood-rich ground
and planted my self-amputated limb
with limp palm cradling sky,
and watched as each nail
blossomed into a stem,
and each stem curled into a leaf,
and each stem split to bear fruit,
oranges that extended fingers taut
with their weight,
exposing white flesh like a bloom,
such cyclical beauty that it stole my breath
before my eyes became avocados
and tumbled from my head,
and I collapsed in a heap of bananas
where I would lie and wait for the poets to eat me.

About Jay Sizemore

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