Pink Flesh

We picked figs under a white moon
the night you left, your jaw set
and determined, though I tried to soften
it with sweet pink flesh, peeled and offered up
with powdered sugar.

You'd have none of it, sent me to the
bedroom to find the old suitcase
with the bamboo handle -- the one
you carried through Europe the summer
Mama died.  That was the year the birds
all left.  Remember?

You lived in that little shotgun house
on Highway 61, and played harmonica
for hours on end, tears trailing
the dust down your cheeks.  I looked
for you then, but you were done.

I whipped butter in a bowl, crushed
figs and cried for all the birds
that would never get to steal them,
picked and put up as preserves
to sit on shelves forgotten 'til
the end of time.