the beauty of a busted fruit

The Beauty of a Busted Fruit

by Natalie Diaz

When we were children, we traced out knees,

shins, and elbows for the slightest hint of wound,

searched them for any sad red-blue scab marking us

both victim and survivor.

All this before we knew that some wounds can’t heal,

before we knew the jagged scars of Great-Grandmother’s

amputated legs, the way a rock can split a man’s head

open to its red syrup, like a watermelon, the way a brother

can pick at his skin for snakes and spiders only he can see.

Maybe you have grown out of yours–

maybe you no longer haul those wounds with you

onto every bus, through the side streets of a new town,

maybe you have never set them rocking in the lamplight

on a nightstand beside a stranger’s bed, carrying your hurts

like two cracked pomegranates, because you haven’t learned

to see the beauty of a busted fruit, the bright stain it will leave

on your lips, the way it will make people want to kiss you.