Fruit


By Emmanuel Oppong-Yeboah

low hanging fruit on the tree
glimmers in the sun, can you see it?

so fruity, with the kick in your step
                              your hips loose

fruity, with the touch of soon to be
rotting. you, a disposable

too. burn faggot and leave
your chortling to the wild breeze

boys like you ain't shit but the foot
we'd put in your ass          no homo

boys like you be nothing
but a bearing. anything we'll latch

onto you. boys like you'll be the mules
to our lassos, coat your faces in wet sand

just so we can stick our slick into you.
boys like you be everything we not: ripe,

good for the picking, tender, soft boys
who never learned to age hard and gangrene

boys like you don't know what a man is
so we be the boys to teach you.

boys like you'll be found split on a bathroom
floor—bruised, all your juice let loose

and puddled enough to see us reflected
in you, everything we not & fear

to let ourselves to be.


Emmanuel Oppong-Yeboah is a Ghanaian-American poet living out the diaspora in Boston, Massachusetts. He is both Black & alive. Emmanuel serves on the staff of Winter Tangerine and Maps for Teeth. He enjoys hot carbs, brightly colored chapbooks, and the long sigh at the end of a good book.

Photo credit: Clinton Nguyen

Photo credit: Clinton Nguyen