meditations on sweetness and other fruits

my mother asks the pronouns of my crush 
as a courtesy, knowing which one she prefers. 
this gives her hope, girlchildren to aspire to 
nevertheless a persistent stinging, ringing 
smoke above the vibrations of the words we 
speak to one another. i don’t kiss using the same 
tongue i confess in, my teeth always chattering 
away a girlhood dispossessed. 
always remember: she the accommodating one 
i basketcase know-it-all split between all divinity, fully spatcocked over glowing coals; i expose my beating muscle to the flame and the flame of course, doesn’t hold the salt of me doesn’t cook the meat into anything tender 
ain’t no thang cut muscle deeper than a Black mother’s refusal me, an expensive lesson in expectation — gluttonous in my shameful desire 
i confess, i prefer fruit. 
in the eveningtime, when the heat becomes bearable my eyes set on the horizon, twisted with visions of watermelon women tonguing their signatures across my inner thighs, the flavor of kumquats descending from my lover’s lips. 
true, i am greedy. 
summer arrives with its ephemeral jewels 
succulent peaches, bountiful berries shortlived 
freedom ends at the corner of my lip, lest what i 
love begs to remain at the border of burning. 
with the scent of honeysuckle in my hair 
a boi drenched in fallen flowers ripens me ready 
drunk with plum wine, the mere 
promise of nectar enough to satisfy a whole 
darkness of longing. the slow roast of time 
descends on all of us, but for this moment, i 
live between a fresh kill and a blossoming tree. 
no matter. it all matters. 
light the joint and 
exhale your juicy transgressions into my eager mouth.