we plucked the last of
fruit infected
like
no tree nearby
objected,
flies forced to lap up
every drop
of milk,
on starched sleeves we
wiped our
mouths
then
belly slithered
south
through swollen
herd
deaf to truth’s
word
while bearing future
children
whom
would nourish those
devoid of
womb,
come crack of noon
on blistered
beach
we
paused to summon
rain-
our twin skeletons
aflame.
hands in the garden 