Encounter at the Orchard Where My Morphology Briefly Entwines With Vegetables


My neighbour’s garden in blossom is the only blessing

this season.

We are at the orchard backyard, inspecting

the succulent fruits,

gloriously ripe, and unfettered by the plague.

She plucks one

of the tomatoes, holds it against my cheeks,

and says I share

lineage with the fruits because of the way I, too,

have bloomed

this season. I cannot deny it even if I wanted to.

My belly

alone is exhibit to that effect. Hitherto, I spent

mornings listening to

the animated fitness instructor on a workout app

tell me to

do sit-ups, burn layers of fat. Until the world was

cursed into this inertia,

I was only a layer before that board-esque belly, nearly

as chiseled as mannequin

but lethargy has paralyzed every projectile sustained

in my marrow

This connivance of junk and a lifetime of siestas

has made tomato of my cheeks

and avocado of my belly.


Abdulbaseet Yusuff is a Nigerian writer. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, Glass Poetry, MoonPark Review, Burning House Press, Kalahari Review, Rising Phoenix Review, Memento: An Anthology Of Contemporary Nigerian Poetry, and elsewhere.