Who has not wanted sweetness
and being given "strange fruit",
yet wished for more?
A bitter tang that lingers on the tongue-
a copper bouquet swilling down the throat-
a strange brew, love.
a shiver in your bowels-
we search it out,
it comes to us, reshaping our mouths-
and we cry like little birds,
peeping for strange fruit.
we can die for lack of love, or of surfeit.
I picked the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil
and found it too big for my mouth.
I pricked its skin, and
sliced it thin and
slid it in
and found it revolting in its sweetness
a pulp crushed in my hands,
seeds too big to swallow-
strange fruit indeed-
comfort me with apples,
for I am sick with/of love. I am sick of love.
I wish no other thing than this-
to be full filled/fulfilled
and finding my stomach empty,
no other food than despair,
no manna in the desert,
i cry out,
I beat my breast, I pick the feathers of my breast, I pick until
the blood flows,
the blood flow of my heart-
I pull it out and rest it in my hand
and bite...and finally am satisfied.
It is all I have desired-
I eat it all, and I am fulfilled-
for sweetness cannot cure my lack,
but only bitter herbs.
It is a pyre's meal,
a prisoner's last request-
for this last meal in which I take my part,
because it is bitter
and because it is my heart.
Find the inspiration for this poem here -"In The Desert" -Stephen Crane