By Mike Beasley
Sprigs lush with dark green leaves and red berries,
Suspended above her;
The twisted leaves, concavities kissing up
To a thousand pain-points of ecstasy,
Dare to be touched, fondled, grasped firmly
In the anguish of palms punctured and bleeding;
As if the gesturer, passion-gorged, punished
For wanting like the ravenous sparrow
To swoop and ravish gently, gently the scarlet fruit
That holds generations in its soft, mealy pulp,
Would, once sated, ascend, scattering seed.