First Plum
Summer at the lake, wearing a bikini bottom—
a time before modesty, when each day brings new
sensations, nerve endings ready to ignite. I tell
my fingers to bunch into a fist, my legs to pump
faster, swing higher. I don’t know my hidden
power—my toddler body carries the possibility
of new life, two ovaries protecting hundreds
of thousands of eggs. A plum, warm from sitting
inside a canvas bag my mother packed that
morning. Rubbing it on her swimsuit,
she makes its blue-black shine. Saliva pools
in my mouth from the fruit’s candy scent. I tear
into thin sour skin, taste the thrill of dark pink
flesh. A second layer of tartness, a warning
from my mother—Be careful of the pit. I suck
and swirl a stone carrying one seed inside,
hope of another plum.
• • •
Summers in the Gully
Like drunk little soldiers, we tripped
our way down to the stream, kicking
everything in sight. We were tight
muscles and sweat, nails caked
with dirt. We dug up worms
and centipedes, watched their blind
scramble for shelter. We piled
dead leaves on fallen limbs, smeared
soil across boulders. We built
a cairn of rocks, mud our mortar,
to block the water’s flow and leave
our mark. Led by my oldest brother,
our nine-year old general, we found
sticks to flick black caterpillars
from trees. We burned a few,
just because. The gully, ours
to manhandle, its inhabitants ours
to wound, or kill. Summer, time
away from the humid stink
of the city, its hard rubber
swings. Far from the slamming metal
door of our apartment, where we
laughed with hysteria, hid
from adult tempers and hands.
• • •
Lisa Caroline Friedman (she/her) was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia, raised in New York City, and currently lives and works in Palo Alto, California. Her poems have been published in The Comstock Review, Connecticut River Review, The Indianapolis Review, The Lake, San Pedro River Review, Thimble, and Unbroken, among others. She graduated with a BA in English from Stanford University and is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at Antioch University.
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