john keats eats a nectarine

 

I watch you bite, sweet-tongued friend,
Teeth sinking in—golden-eyed, golden-tongued,
Golden-hued. 

You cannot watch me back, hidden as I am,
In shadow, in grey curtains,
In this heaviness of being me.
You cannot watch me back, as I dream
Of the nectar in your mouth
(Golden, saccharine—not honey,
Lighter, purer),
You cannot know me as I sit here knowing you.

You bite, engulfing, consuming,
Fruit of time, fruit of years,
Fruit of sunlight and water and
Ugly brown dirt, dead creatures in the mud,
Worms in the sand, churning, squirming,
Fruit of golden sunshine.
Engulfing you, consuming,
Mouth shining with fruit-blood and spit,
Shining golden in the same sunlight
That birthed it.

They have called this sinful,
Those before us, those too small
To know the truth (the true truth, the real one).
They have named it a sin, to bite and bleed dry
The fruit of the earth, to swallow the liquid sunlight
Born of the deep and the dead.

I wonder at them now as I watch you,
Wonder at the small ones, the fearful ones
(For they were afraid, were they not,
And who would not be, in the face of such
Radiance, the sunlight that blinds me as I write this?
Who would not be afraid?).

I wonder at the ones who came before,
Not because they were afraid (for am I not as well?)
But because of how ignorant these fears were.
Sin—the idea is laughable.
I fear not for my soul—unworthy of any fear as it is—
But for my mind, my eyes, my who-I-am.
I fear I will be blinded, I fear I will wake up
And realise this has all been a dream,
Of gold and sugar and shining blood.

But all these fears disappear now,
Mere buzzing flies on the fruit of my mind,
As I return my gaze to you.
You, of the golden mouth,
You, of the firestone eyes,
You, of teeth dripping with the earth's blood.
You, you, you.

The fruit in your hands shudders
Or is it your hand that shudders, in rapture?
For this is rapture; I am sure,
I can think of no other words.
Such rapture, that the word sin is erased
From my mind, has never been at all,
And not only the word but the thing itself.
Your mouth drips gold blood,
And I can think nothing, say nothing,
Except that this—this must be my salvation.

(Art: Autumn Sunlight (In the Woods), 1888, by Theodore Robinson)

This is probably my favourite thing that I've written (for now, at least). And no, despite what the title says, the “you” here isn't actually Keats. I wonder who it really is.
This whole poem was certainly inspired by Keats, though; specifically this article about him. I...have a lot of thoughts about fruit, and this is most of them.
(I'll probably never get tired of writing about fruit, though. I could spend my whole life making art about oranges.)