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- Basket of Figs by Ellen Bass
- Bring me your pain, love. Spread
- it out like fine rugs, silk sashes,
- warm eggs, cinnamon
- and cloves in burlap sacks.
- Show me the detail, the intricate embroidery
- on the collar, tiny shell buttons,
- the hem stitched the way you were taught,
- pricking just a thread, almost invisible.
- Unclasp it like jewels, the gold
- still hot from your body. Empty
- your basket of figs. Spill your wine.
- That hard nugget of pain, I would suck it,
- cradling it on my tongue like the slick
- seed of pomegranate.
- I would lift it
- tenderly, as a great animal might
- carry a small one in the private
- cave of the mouth.
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