Orchard Logic
by Tanvi Peddi, Presbyterian Ladies College
Years 9 – 10 Written Poetry Finalist
The peach is a heart that overpacked its suitcase
too much sweetness for one small country of skin,
so it spills, unbothered, down the wrist
like it never learned to be careful with joy.
The orange is a locket full of tiny rooms,
each segment a secret wearing the same shy smile,
and peeling it back is like unwrapping a gift
that keeps being a gift, all the way down.
Grapes are gossip on a vine
huddled close, blushing the same color,
bursting with the same held breath
the moment someone finally listens.
The fig doesn’t open to bloom.
It blooms with the door already shut,
hundreds of small mouths flowering
in a room with no window,
and something has to get in first
a wasp, wingless by the time she’s inside,
already home.
She doesn’t come back out.
The fig closes over her
the way a hand closes
around something it isn’t ready to put down,
and by the time it’s soft enough to eat,
even the seeds don’t remember
there was ever a door.
I want to be more fig
than peach or orange or grape some days
to let something all the way in
and never open again to check on it,
to hold a door shut
even after I’ve stopped hearing anything behind it,
and still call what’s left
sweet.