She sprawls now, unrecognizable
from her tiny, tender self I put in place
five months ago,

flailing her many arms like a Hindu
goddess, her bunches of green-globed
breasts still intent on ripening

in November. She is not giving up.
Part of me knows that I must pull
her out, but not yet, not yet.

Like the play as it nears its end,
the dagger in her hand, I beg, every time,
not yet, not yet.