And looking at them makes my skin
slide off the bone,
against uneasy black slime I fear will
from the bark, landing sticky and hot
as tar,too heavy on my chest.
on the trunk,
round purple flesh packed together
in the belly of a Traira Catfish
tight with pregnancy.
These Jabuticaba fruits
to my sternum,
multiplying with every shallow breath
stuck humid and dark
against my ribs
I can’t look away even though I hate
their closeness and too-round things.