Figs

We sat on a bridge in my hometown,
shook off our shoes, swished our skirts.
Bare feet on a summer afternoon
feel a lot like freedom;
something talked about and then forgotten
in the discomfort of the day-to-day.
We talked about Esther’s figs,
how the future seemed so spread out,
our choices incomprehensible.
We talked about our missing pieces.
We were so young.
I told you I thought that inside every girl was a hole
where a boy belonged.
You couldn’t stop laughing.
I was so wrong. Inside every girl is a hole
where a whole world should go
and it still isn’t enough, and the hole grows and grows,
and the missing pieces never come back.

If you dig a hole in the dirt and replace it with gold,
there is still a hole in the dirt.
The gold doesn’t make the dirt less dirty,
doesn’t stop things from growing.
It’s just there. And it’s beautiful.
It’s perfect. The way the hole continues to be a hole
even as it holds something so precious.
I look to each blue Neon and ask its name.
None of them say Billy. None of them carry the ache of dislocation.
How can you exist wholly in one place
when your mind is in two?
I juggle alternate realities like figs
until my arms go numb,
and still don’t know how to choose.
Picking one means letting others smash against the ground.
Not choosing is also a choice.

Darla Mottram is a student at Marylhurst University. Her poems have recently been featured in Elohi Gadugi Journal and Eunoia Review. Her current hobby is making friends with crows on campus.