Figs - A Poem by Patty Mooney

Image via Wikipedia The first figs of the season were offered to Bacchus, and at festivals in his honor, devout females wore garlands of dried figs.

The Prophet Mohammed once exclaimed: “If I should wish a fruit brought to Paradise it would certainly be the fig.”

The fig was Cleopatra's favorite fruit with the asp that ended her life brought to her in a basket of figs.

Pears, oranges, mangos,
and in the case of Wendy Whoppers,
porn star--Casaba melons--
comprise the universal scale
of a woman's breasts,
fruity, squeezable, scrumptious,
from small to extra large.

And the yield of a man?
Luscious figs.
Note the shape, the heft, the texture.
No other object so perfectly approximates.
Nuts?
Balls?
Jewels?
No.

Now figs, those succulent, sun-stroked fruits
which even at this moment, hang ready
for plucking and eating, are sweeter than
you know; each contains more Vitamin C
than an orange.
And Calcium,
Potassium,
Iron.
Think of it!
For a season those fig trees bow
to me with their bounty:
Calimyrna,
Mission,
Kadota.
I nip, suck, swallow, swoon.
The shape, the texture, the heft.