I didn’t know cacti could bear fruit. That one could harvest from thorns, something so delectably rich, red, a strange fruit.
Black mother made for desert sun that even when planted in the evergreen, still scavenging, surviving birthing prickly things.
Hair like thorns. Roughage like skin. A fleshly, bloody inside,
soft, seedy and hard to eat.
Prickled fingertips of patient hands. Love tough. Small cuts from sharp spine.
Storing sun. Storing water. Storing life. Like mother like fruit.
Like fruit unfallen from its tree. Birthing Black. Birthing Opuntia
KUNDAI : CONQUER
This is a freewrite poem is about prickly pears.
Something sort of the rose that grew from concreate, is fruit born from cacti, is black children born of black mothers, is life flourishing from sources its environment should not allow it to.