She who paints, 
draws jackfruits
on the branches of the jackfruit tree
and on the roots
just as they are
not fashioned as breasts on the female trunk

Not as split body parts
as openings and wounds
but
as if two minutes ago
Mother had
cut it in two with a knife
and laid it on the bare floor

Its skin, innards
flesh, seeds
the slippery seed–husks
each not drawn separately

The body fully built in thorns
the burden a woman straightening herself bears.

The sticky stain
that refuses to be erased -
the seed that falls at the foot of the jackfruit tree
that rots and sprouts –
the smell that spreads all around-

When women who do not paint, look
with babies growing inside their bellies,
they see fruits

for real,
stuck to the jackfruit tree trunk.