Nine Purple Plums
By: Özge Lena
my feet are on the snow
bare
nine purple plums on a white sheet
I lift one foot
as I hear a shot behind
the howling of the bullet splitting the snowflakes
I let myself down
as it flies over my head flittering my hair
then I fall and fall
the man is on the edge
with my little plum in his pocket
as he shoots the abyss
the sliding lichens on the rocks
a freezing blast
the heavy smell of the mould
in a dark room
and the secateurs
with a grating crackle
a cruel pain
the blood welling out
with my hoarse scream
my body crashes on the frozen river
the crunch of the bones
and up above
the purple phantom of the man
I used to love
my sweet plum he was
once upon a time
now I'm the tenth plum
stuck on the frost
melting in the ice
I merge into the river
that's what I become
but a rotten plum
and will be the long forgotten one