by Zoha Kashif
Figs
Some fruits grow on violence,
blood like water for their roots.
A trembling wasp stuck inside
the silk violet body of a fig.
The wasps crowd the nectar.
They do not understand
they will be crushed inside its
walls like mulberries inside a fist.
Lord, I fear everything
I find beautiful will kill me.
Communion
I would’ve let you use the skin of my wrist
as an ashtray,
offered it like a communion biscuit
pressed into your palm.
I wouldn’t flinch at the sound of my skin
sizzling like eggs in a pan.
I would fold the pain like paper
and tuck it behind my ribs.
I would nail myself to the wood
with iron spikes
and let you hold the lash.
Let the blood drain from my
body like water slipping down
the sink.
****
Zoha Kashif is a Pakistani-Canadian poet from Toronto. When she isn't writing, she can be found gardening or playing fetch with her dog at the park. Her work is published and forthcoming in Silver Canyon Review, Housebound Magazine, The Attic Review, A Few Words Magazine, ARTYK Magazine, Mosaic Lit Journal and The Up And Coming Magazine.