Cling-wrap skin
like a water balloon,
my teeth puncture,
chin is wet
with the fullness
of ripe juice
purple as the sky
before a storm.
I hold my fingers out
to stave off the stickiness,
cautious
like you might hold a mouse
or a spider
or a fruit
that spits with its own
volition.
The rivulet has reached
my elbow,
I abandon my defenses
and my next bite bursts
a flood onto my face.
The plum dies
a noble death,
born
to be
devoured.