Plum

Yesterday
my brother comes up to me,
paintbrush in hand,
eyes mischievous,
grabs my wrist
twisting gently so my palm lay
face-up in his.
With careful smooth strokes
he painted a plum right there onto my hand.
Beginning with the stone
let it grow
adding the, sweet sunset-colored body,
then stretching tart purple skin
over the exposed flesh
of the fruit.
He blew on his creation
and pressed his palm deep in mine,
so I could feel the juice
running through our fingers.

— Saria Rosenhaj ’17 (Winner, Carol Ann Robertson Award, DeSales University Poetry Contest)