Inside of Every Fig There is a Wasp

Zoe Arruda

there is a lady around the corner who

speaks in a tongue without any future tense

and sells fresh fruits washed with seawater and grief

I cannot ever eat enough of them

the skins the seeds the flesh become light that digs

into the dips of my lips my neck my chest

it spells: THE HEART IS THE WASP WITHIN THE FIG

with the inertia of the act of wanting

I gouge out every moment of my life like

pomegranate seeds like mad like devotion

like is this enough for me yet? what do you

do with the red sun-sized mouths in your stomach?

I ask the lady this and so she replies:

THE WHITE-HOT STAR RUNS TOWARDS THE HORIZON

THE WORLD IS ENDING AND THIS KEEPS YOU FULL

her voice and honey and pearls flood all the same

flood until the sea pulses oppressive against

my chest and breathes bright heat into my lungs

the water spits me out and I watch a tiny child on shore

eating an orange with ruby scraped knees smiling

all the people I've loved were once small enough

to fit in the crook of my arms— they still do

the child holds the sun in the palm of their hands

walks towards me and offers me a piece

Zoe Arruda is a disabled and queer writer based in Ontario. They’ve got a complicated relationship with commas, and lately, they enjoy writing about interpersonal relationships, disabled life, and psychological horror. They are finishing their undergraduate degree in History and English Literature at the University of Toronto. They paint and play video games in their spare time. You can find more of their work in the UC Gargoyle or on IG: @zoestypewriter