figment; fragment 

i could not tell you what a fig tree looks like,

tho i imagine i once sat beneath one

sometime, within the field of granny’s blackberry bushes

as she often spoke of figs

and how her mother loved them 

whilst doctor oz rambled on from the kitchen television 

set atop the fridge 

 

i do not know what flavor they liken

or quite how you cook them 

maybe as a fill to a pie or a tart, 

possibly sweet— probably soured 

 

granny didn’t bake much;  she cooked 

chicken and ham and green beans with the fatty bits of bacon 

i no longer eat meat, didn’t want to then either 

but if i know anything, you don’t say no to offers from granny nor papaw 

even when he asks you to church 

and you’ve no longer anything proper to wear

nor patience to spare for that withered wooden pew 

‘cause they won’t be here forever, and their god may forsake you too