I

A man picked a fig from the ground. One fig,
its siblings clung to the tree like koalas. One fig,
squat, plump, so plump the man felt sorry for it.
A man picked up a fig and wrapped it in brown paper,
placed it in his satchel. The man did not often pick figs.
He picked stray hairs, nail clippings, locks, teeth, bits
of other people’s food. The fig surprised him, its soft
underbelly, stem that tears without asking permission.

II

A fig fell from her tree, outgrew the dangling nest mother
had built; her fingers snapped, she tumbled stem over belly.
Her brothers and sisters chattered. Her uncles grunted sweetly.
A feral dog snapped at a nearby fence post. A cat padded past.
A man in blue wing-tipped Oxfords found her cowering
in fragrant woodchips, plucked her to the relative safety
of a satchel stuffed full of beard hairs, nail clippings, keys,
loose molars, and bits of pound cake. She thought this was home.

III

A fig tree swayed in the breeze, holding her many hands
like Christmas ornaments. The clouds closed. It rained.
Her children shivered, her leaves too small to shelter.
A preacher might speak of the Tree of Knowledge.
It’s the fig that really messed things up, when her twigs
outgrew her foliage, when she let her children fall,
bruised and battered, scattered to the jaws of Earth,
waiting to be picked up by a collector.