A Segment of Irradiated Mangosteen

If I posit magic fruit
with no teeth marks, it's

that empires wax and wane
in the breath before the seed

awakens, double fertilization
at the base of some temple

usually when the sun is near
collapse. My disenchantment,

my boredom and torpor,
almost nothing I own

will take me there. Why
when I say eight hours

must it either be menial
tasks or dream logic?

There are many other options
and your mind is already

voyaging downstream
toward their prototypes.

A fruit never sliced apart
is just one. If I posit

magic fruit, it's that it buzzes
when picked. It buds slowly

from a bush on dark water.
Mystics report no taste

but for farmers it's delirious.
Emperors don't even try

ingestion. All they want
is to lay a million eggs

when it's rotten or overripe.
The government refuses

to import this fruit, but do not
blame the government.

Blame the flies. The flies
who would pillage the crops.

The highly symbolic crops.
The disintegrating fields!

Copyright © 2010 Jack Boettcher All rights reserved
from Gulf Coast
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission