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The fruit with its arch of passion

Fruit, yellow teardrop, plump

Kissed our heads as we passed

As we entered your past to the

Woman who waited.

You would turn the old

Stones, kick hard the traces,

Your bright youth revealed.

I spoke my pidgin French

To be as you would want me

To be as I so anted to be.

Knowing I would be judged

A blonded, pale interloper.

I feared the worst. Your barbed

Protected past, who could touch

It? So guarded on all sides

By soldiers who cynically

Check my papers. In my dreams,

You are warned: do not pass

This way again. And I stood

Beneath the door frame

As the whole earth shook

And I saw my world crumble.

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