Forbidden Fruit

by Edward Alan Bartholomew 

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I pluck’d a fledgèd fruit

I pluck’d it of its feathers:

clipp’d it round and tugg’d the root

and snipp’d the woody tether. 


I saved the fruit a thresh

more craggy than my fist,

but then I bit more bitter flesh

than e’er my lips had kiss’d: 


the skin, a bible black;

the flesh, that hearty red

that cross’d a shield and shun’d attack

before a beat were bled. 


Could Constantine have seen

the piety-worthy pit,

or e’en the font that fill’d between

the skin my teeth had split, 


the sight would surely rouse

the spilling of his spit;

for this apostate pulp could douse

the firy Chi-Rho writ. 


You are no thing of God,

my plum, 


and so I freely loot

what you would cede to waste;

there is no forbidden fruit

except by human taste.