Jennifer Saunders

FERMENTATION

I like a mango so close to overripe that it’s a race
to finish it before it turns; I like standing under

our plum tree and smelling the fermenting windfall
in the grass, I like watching the bees stagger drunk

out of the holes they’ve bored into bruised fruit.
I wonder if the drunk ones make it back to the hive

or if they have to sit by the side of some bee highway
and sleep it off. I like the smell of plum mash

when I pop the lid off the blue barrel to add more yeast,
to stir and smash. Sometimes a bee, drawn

by the scent, dips in and drowns. It’s part of it now,
the stir and the burn. This is how bees slip down

my throat: distilled down to cells. If I drink enough
schnapps, I’ll be hive and hum, stinger and honey.

I gather the windfall, bruised and buzzing. If I drink
enough schnapps, I’ll separate my pit from my flesh.