Sitting with Figs

by Nazifa Islam

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a found poem: Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar

Purple figs plopped at my feet—

another and another


and another like a pack of offbeat lovers.

The fat figs beckoned and winked.


I was starving but I couldn’t make myself

choose one.


I couldn’t decide which I wanted.

They sat before me


and began to wrinkle. I saw

every fig go black.


I was choosing death. I was losing

my brilliant mind.