It doesn’t look like much.
A red, round thing.
Waxy in my palm.
Smelling of nothing.
Promising all.
 
He said not to, I know.
 
The other one
said it was truth.  
Power in edible form.
If only we dare
to be as gods.
 
Your face shadows
as I rip it
from the branch.
Ah, my love.
Always so good.
 
It tastes of grief
and honey.
 
Here…
Take it.