Inflorescence
Jad Josey

What if the first person to sit
beneath the fig tree hadn’t plucked

that strange flower, hadn’t dared to die—
had instead carried on without

tasting its sweetness. We stare through
windows at horses in the pasture,

imagine saddle and bit and reins
instead of freedom. The grass

is tall and yellow, pregnant heads
bowed against the breeze.

We were always all of this
without ever knowing: flowers growing

inward, never noticing the light until
the teeth come tearing through.

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Jad Josey’s Comments

This poem was inspired by—no surprise—musings on a fig. In an earlier life, I was the head chef at a vegan restaurant, and one of the owners was an avid forager. He foraged all types of herbs, fruits, sea vegetables, and mushrooms for the restaurant. Some mornings, I’d wake up to find a small collection of figs on my front porch. He was fascinated by figs, which aren’t actually a fruit, but an inflorescence. I was thinking about the secret world inside of us, about how we are always growing inward. And, thus, this poem was born.

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