The fig is pruned in early spring, older branches lopped off so the tree can better concentrate on fruiting. You wonder If it anticipates the blade before it slices into green-brown wood, the way pain makes you flinch before its formal arrival— Alarm of an unexpected phone call, the sound a body makes hitting the floor with a thud before it's borne away by paramedics. Chopping onions through a haze of tears, running into a corner which delivers a blue-black jab on your chest; finding a letter on the counter with no other explanation. All of this is just practice for the real zinger: whatever form it takes, it’ll knock all the wind out of you.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.