Robert Julius
Fruit Ghazal
The guys in my high school used to call feminine boys fruit,
and I knew there were worse names they could call me. Fruit
nourishes the body, supplies it with fructose and vitamins.
Bite into a juicy mango or peach or any in-season fruit
and you’ll see how the body takes in its sweetness, sugar
dissolving on the tip of the tongue. I don’t mind fruit
over the other F-slur. The former has never followed me down
dark alleys, has never been thrown at me from the cabin of fruit-
colored pickup trucks. Cherry red, or cream white like the inside
of coconut. When a man insults my faggotry, I prefer it be with fruit—
at least then I am a thing of desire. A man calls the inside of fig
flesh. He opens it with his fingers to reveal its pink. Carnal fruit,
slutty fruit. A more malevolent fig, called Florida strangler,
ascends its host and chokes with vines. Birds eat this kinky fruit,
gummy and chock-full of seeds. When the host dies, the strangler
fig grows hollow in its absence. It can be a thing of evil, this fruit,
like the god who punishes Eve for taking a bite from the apple.
Perhaps this is the fear of a man shouting faggot—that the fruit
of gay bodies will compel him to feed. That he might upset his angry
god. That flesh like mine could be mouthwatering, forbidden fruit.
Robert Julius is a queer writer from Pittsburgh, PA. He is a poetry editor for Ohio State’s literary magazine, The Journal. His work appears in or is forthcoming in Alegrarse, Brevity, cream city review, Crosswinds, The Florida Review, Ghost City Press, The Indiana Review, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. You can follow him on Twitter @schumaker93.
Return to March 2020 Edition
The guys in my high school used to call feminine boys fruit,
and I knew there were worse names they could call me. Fruit
nourishes the body, supplies it with fructose and vitamins.
Bite into a juicy mango or peach or any in-season fruit
and you’ll see how the body takes in its sweetness, sugar
dissolving on the tip of the tongue. I don’t mind fruit
over the other F-slur. The former has never followed me down
dark alleys, has never been thrown at me from the cabin of fruit-
colored pickup trucks. Cherry red, or cream white like the inside
of coconut. When a man insults my faggotry, I prefer it be with fruit—
at least then I am a thing of desire. A man calls the inside of fig
flesh. He opens it with his fingers to reveal its pink. Carnal fruit,
slutty fruit. A more malevolent fig, called Florida strangler,
ascends its host and chokes with vines. Birds eat this kinky fruit,
gummy and chock-full of seeds. When the host dies, the strangler
fig grows hollow in its absence. It can be a thing of evil, this fruit,
like the god who punishes Eve for taking a bite from the apple.
Perhaps this is the fear of a man shouting faggot—that the fruit
of gay bodies will compel him to feed. That he might upset his angry
god. That flesh like mine could be mouthwatering, forbidden fruit.
Robert Julius is a queer writer from Pittsburgh, PA. He is a poetry editor for Ohio State’s literary magazine, The Journal. His work appears in or is forthcoming in Alegrarse, Brevity, cream city review, Crosswinds, The Florida Review, Ghost City Press, The Indiana Review, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. You can follow him on Twitter @schumaker93.
Return to March 2020 Edition