Sylvia Plath has a lot to answer for

And there are always
bloody figs, blooming, 
ripening, decaying: 

Climbing a tree, sticky-
handed in the stillness
of a grandmother's backyard;

Ripping open the jammy 
centre, juice dripping 
from chin;

Wasp piercing the virgin 
womb turned soft
coffin;

Slicing slivers of flesh, 
fine and grainy 
as the sand on that beach

in the Cotswolds, 
where he held your 
bag while you peed

in the bush
because the ladies'
looked a scene

from a horror film 
where the figs were 
definitely a metaphor

for something, 
and there was not a fig 
tree in sight.