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