By Sharon Whitehill
An adolescent lost to her hormones,
compelled like the durian tree
to inflict puncture wounds,
the thorns on its rind seem no kin
to the feathery flower that came first,
or the buttery richness
of ripe fruit to come.
A beloved husband adrift,
still breathing yet all but extinguished,
his body the husk, browned and dry,
left behind when the harvest
is ground into meal.
As the kernel remembers the corn,
so his imprint on those who remain.
A woman as bodily ravaged
as the remains of a tree,
rotted away to a stump
but kept alive by its kind.
Forever ungreen, yet most deeply herself,
her essence polished to shining.
Sharon Whitehill is a retired English professor from West Michigan now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. In addition to poems published in various literary magazines, her publications include two biographies, two memoirs, two poetry chapbooks, and a full collection of poems.