Pit

 

fragile plums fall off

the tree by your front porch

long before you return

 

tender and overripe

so a thumb’s lightest touch

sinks all the way down to pit,

though the fruit sat almost safe

cradled in your hand,

 

I want to crack the core

that looks like walnut shells

we used to gather

from Ms. Pearl’s driveway,

its brown wrinkles coursing

over the promise of life locked inside,

 

she hung a dead crow one day

from the walnut tree’s lowest branch,

fresh shot by her son

to ward others off:

 

his wings stuck out

stiff, frame tugged

toward earth

against a pale shoelace

that wrapped his foot,

 

beak cracked open

as if to let escape

all the secrets he uncovered

falling from the branches

---

 

Conor Scruton lives in Bowling Green, Ky., where he helps students with their writing both creative and academic. Outside of writing, he spends most of his time running, cooking, translating French poetry, and occasionally taking photos. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gravel and Red Mud Review.