Imogen Osborne
The first weapon was the fist,
solemn, purple, stuffed with bright
berries sweating against
the boy, who is the second weapon,
he picked them on his way to me.
Like a poem, a date requires
a central image. Even the worst
encounter can be redeemed by this.
And he delivered —
opening his hand at the bar
like a star over the beer mats, said
mulberries like a brand new
city, each syllable wide enough
to populate the long night. I chewed
like a good girl, thought
these might kill me, grinned
anyway — would rather die
than refuse
a stranger. I don’t remember
undressing, only the rain outside
removing the memory as it formed.
I stained at the slightest touch. Boy was
all teeth, cracked with seeds —
we plucked them from our gums.
Boy’s a cavity, said
Mulberries take their time —
the last to bud, the wisest trees.
He was not sweet, fruit as my witness,
but those mulberry moons
much more than harmless
grew poems from the soil.
They are the third weapon.
Imogen Osborne grew up in Bristol, England. She now lives in Ithaca, New York. Her poetry and fiction have been published in Anthropocene, Apocalypse Confidential, Expat Press and elsewhere.
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