High on wine and August heat, we feast
purple–skinned beauties. Picked
from a century–old tree, descendant
of the stock Franciscan missionaries
planted on rugged, sun–baked lands
they seized in the name of their god.
I bite another. Runny–eyed,
it opens to a candied center.
Honey and earth. A nectared globe.
My wanting tongue curls rosy
studded flesh. Ficus carica.
Not a fruit, but an inverted flower
pollinated by a fig wasp. She entered
its ostiole–laid her eggs, lost her wings.
Sacrificed herself for this ambrosial cause.
Gratitude to the martyr wasp, to her
winged, pollen–dusted daughters
who leave the world their mother found
to find new homes. To begin again.
Hunger—ancient as this starry night.
Wasp after wasp. Fig after sweet fig.
–
Luisa Giulianetti is a Bay Area writer. Her debut collection, Agrodolce (Bordighera Press), was released in 2024. Her work appears in Brilliant Corners, CALYX, Rattle, and River Heron Review. Luisa teaches and directs programs at UC Berkeley. She enjoys cooking, hiking, and exploring the expansive beauty of the place she calls home.
