The
Poetry Of Amy L. George
Bitter
Fruit
We ate berries off the tree
behind the church,
even though the adults told us not to
since no one knew anything about them
other than that they looked
like blackberries stretched into bullets.
We whispered prayers
before the altar
in our Sunday best, clasped
our hands in our laps
during the sermon.
We waited until the minister
said, "Amen."
Then we snuck outside,
slunk over to the tree
while our parents
chatted about the sermon
and the weather.
The berries glistened in the sun,
temptation for tiny hands.
We joyed in plucking
the forbidden fruit,
We rolled the berries
around in our mouths,
sunk our teeth into their sweet flesh,
juice spurting like fountains
we swallowed.
We licked our fingers
when we heard our parents' voices
in the garden,
hid crimson-stained hands
behind our backs,
as if God did not see our sin.
We dared not tell anyone
how our stomachs ached.
top
The
Performance
I watched a leaf fall this evening.
It floated back and forth as it descended,
conducted at the tip
of an invisible baton.
It landed with a quiet bow
and trees ceased applauding,
but the sky called it up again,
demanded an encore-
a whirling crescendo-
a dance across a blank stage.
The small dancer
obliged the wind
as if knowing
it was entertaining me
in the final moments of light
before the dark curtain fell.
top
Author's Note: Bitter Fruit
and The Performance have not been submitted elsewhere
nor published.
Amy L. George lives in South
Carolina with her husband and two psychotic cats. Her current
day job is a being a secretary, but she aspires to one day teach
Creative Writing. She is graduating this month with her M.F.A.
in Creative Writing from National University. Her poetry has
been published by journals such as The Orange Room Review
and The Shine Journal.
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