“I’ve eaten your plums,” he sneered.

A fruit fight ensued. Mangoes, a hail of cherries, a ballistic Crenshaw melon.

After, we lay prone, exhausted and covered in juice, near the icebox.

A non-participant plucked the last plum off the kitchen counter.

It was delicious and sweet and cold, he reported.

Erin Gilmore is an artist and editor living in Los Angeles.

Editor: The title refers to this classic poem.