The Fruit

There was nothing wrong
with the fruit.
The act of eating a piece of heaven,
holding the firm flesh of fruit
between fingers,
tasting the ripeness
of its origin beneath
the shade of the reaching branches
painted with birdsong and mist,
the action itself,
the taste on tongue,
carried the weight.
A seed is caught in my throat.

But the snake must be evil,
scraping across caked bark
that lines the aged trunk.
It is easy to blame another,
to point a finger wet with juice
and call sin his fault.
I ask for a glass of water.

Maybe the Devil arrives
in a pleasing form.
Maybe he arrives scaled and sallow,
aching with pulse
that drowns the heartbeat,
wrapping a lone limb over leaves.
Maybe he whispers in honeyed tones
and reveals the beauty of fruit in sunlight.
Maybe he smiles
as he takes your hand in his.
I swallow liquid hungrily
as the water trickles down my chin.

Fruit in one palm,
doubt in the other.
Maybe the worst deeds
are done with a grin.
A tree begins to grow in my stomach.
My jaw expands and a branch
sprouts from my reddened mouth.

Maybe the earth
does not realize how loud
the sound of evil is,
the way it hisses
from between the branches
of a tree laden with fruit.

Omair Hasan

Omair Hasan is an undergraduate student at The Ohio State University who deeply enjoys reading and writing poetry. He has work published and forthcoming in Oberon Poetry Magazine, Encore Prize Poems, The Merrimack Review, as well as other publications.

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