Figs

We took after Sylvia that night,
letting the figs fall to the ground.
The moon watched us as we stood
at the bottom of the sea, picking up
the pieces the tide forgot to keep.

Scavenging the cave inside me feels like
writing poetry to a wall that had never
faced the sun. The tide pools called me into
the dark, called our name as if we were one
thing. One thing. With figs in our pockets,
with one hand in the water and the other
on your heart, I walked into the ocean
holding my breath for a moment before
giving it away like a gift. For you, Virginia,
I thought. For your pack and your blood,
for the lighthouse you built for me.

We took after Sylvia that night,
letting the figs fall to the ground.
We told ourselves we’d rather die than
make a decision.

By Farah Billah

Biography:

Farah Billah is a contemporary painter and poet from Sacramento, CA.
Widely recognized for her photo series Coriander Cats, her work has been featured on Buzzfeed, Pop XO Daily, HYFN, The Dhaka Tribune, and NBC News. She is the author of Wrong Turns Lead Here, her debut collection of poetry in the United States.
Farah believes in the ocean, the forest, and solid street food. She believes the art already exists and we are simply messengers of the art. We must honor it as such.