being in love and then, not

After Sylvia Plath’s fig tree in The Bell Jar

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story
Long swollen fingers reaching in desperation
From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a future beckoned and sighed
One fig was a matchbox, filled with enough time to blame myself
and another fig was my hangnails between your teeth
and another fig was leaving a party of people who didn’t realise I was even there
and another fig contained the feeling of searching in the Yellow Pages for somewhere to put my love
and another fig was a maddening red velvet ribbon to tie around my neck 
and another fig was a choice, between a broken homecoming or a bitter end 
and another fig was holding the evidence of God, 
much more than a name on a Coca-Cola bottle or a face on a robo cam at a basketball game
and beyond and above these figs were hundreds more throbbing figs I couldn’t quite make out
I pluck one nearest to me, feel it squirm in my palm 
I have to stick it in my mouth, from the thin skin to the bruised flesh and the myriad of tiny seeds
I am drunk on it
I am fed and fed and fed
My teeth are stained with its blood
The seeds nest and multiply in the back of my grazed throat, they will marry me to this life
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, a house of my own horrors, 
just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would take home to bury in my garden
I hated each and every one of them, the whole lot was a bruised fist with an empty nest
But choosing one meant living through all the rest
and, as I sat there, unable to decide which fate was worse
the figs began to wrinkle and go black
and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet