The first figs of the season were offered to Bacchus,
and at festivals in his honor,
devout females wore garlands of dried figs.

The Prophet Mohammed once exclaimed:
“If I should wish a fruit brought to Paradise
it would certainly be the fig.”

The fig was Cleopatra’s favorite fruit
with the asp that ended her life
brought to her in a basket of figs.

Pears, oranges, mangos,
and in the case of Wendy Whoppers,
porn star—Casaba melons—
comprise the universal scale
of a woman’s breasts,
fruity, squeezable, scrumptious,
from small to extra large.

And the yield of a man?
Luscious figs.
Note the shape, the heft, the texture.
No other object so perfectly approximates.

Nuts?
Balls?
Jewels?
No.

Now figs, those succulent, sun-stroked fruits
which even at this moment, hang ready
for plucking and eating, are sweeter than
you know; each contains more Vitamin C
than an orange.

And Calcium,
Potassium,
Iron.
Think of it!

For a season those fig trees bow
to me with their bounty:
Calimyrna,
Mission,
Kadota.

I nip, suck, swallow, swoon.

The shape, the heft, the texture.