How She Heard It

Your father gathered what was left
after the birth, slick sack of salt
and blood coloring his hands
warm from my body. He couldn’t help 
that it felt the same as when I took him
inside me, drew him out of himself 
to be joined with what we were making. 
At the edge of our small orchard
he settled the plum seedling
he’d started three years before, 
snugged roots in the hole to eat
the placenta. The part of you 
you didn’t need fed the tree, 
and when you turned six, 
you ate from the branches. 
Your small hands clasping the dark 
shiny skin as you bit the saffron flesh, 
juice dribbling at chin, smell as sweet
as the sugar you were born in.